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PH 1 Lk E LPH I ,'\ 
I'll i . i Bl I SI I I I I 



THE 




BRITISH 


FEMALE 


POETS: 


BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES. 


»v 





GEO. W. BETHUNE. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

LINDSAY & BLAKISTON. 

1849. 







Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S48, by 

LINDSAY * RLAKISTON, 

in the clerk's office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN. 
PKiNTED BY C. SHERMAN. 



(2) 



PREFACE. 



The following volume contains the Editor's gatherings 
during a leisurely excursion through a most pleasant depart- 
ment of English literature. The manifestation of female 
talent is a striking characteristic of our age, and a very inter- 
esting proof of its moral advancement. Clever and even 
learned women had appeared in the course of the last cen- 
tury, and a few, "far between," yet earlier; but they were, 
when at all successful as waiters, rather petted by the gallantry 
of their contemporaries because of their gentler sex, than ad- 
mitted to the high society of wits for their actual merits ; nor 
did they, scarcely one excepted, deserve greater considera- 
tion. The last hundred, especially the last fifty years, have 
demonstrated, that as there are offices necessary to the elegant 
perfection of society, which can be discharged only by the 
delicate and more sensitive faculties of woman, so her grace- 
ful skill can shed charms over letters, which man could never 
diffuse. In all pertaining to the affections, which constitute 
the best part of human nature, we readily confess her supe- 
riority ; it is, therefore, consistent with her character that the 

(iii) 



IV PREFACE. 

genius of woman should yield peculiar delight when its 
themes are love, childhood, the softer beauties of creation, 
the joys or sorrows of the heart, domestic life, mercy, reli- 
gion, and the instincts of justice. Hence her excellence in 
the poetry of the sensibilities. There are instances of her 
boldly entering the sphere of man, and asserting strong claims 
to share the honours of his sterner engagements ; but the 
Daciers, De Staels, and Hannah Mores, are variations from 
the rule prescribed by a wise Providence. The much-vexed 
question as to the superiority of male or female intellect, is 
one that should never be discussed, because the premises are 
so different that it can never be settled. As well might we 
compare the vine, with its curling tendrils, its broad-leaved 
convolutions and delicious clusters, to the oak, that is des- 
tined for the architrave or the storm-daring ship. The trees 
of the forest go down before the tempest ; the vine lives on, 
to cover with foliage the ruin of the shaft around which it 
twined. We are pained to see a woman toiling in the sun 
or the cold ; but what were man's labour worth, if he had no 
home where woman reigned in her realm of affection ? Yet 
within that home are trials, cares, duties and difficulties, to 
which only woman's tact, conscience and endurance are 
equal. Faith is the highest exercise of reason, hope the best 
practice of faith ; but charity is the greatest of the three ; 
and we do woman honour when we consider charity, in its 
widest sense, as peculiarly her attribute. The records of 
literature confirm this position. 

When few women mingled in the circle of authors, the 
men, however mighty their powers, were often coarse, and 
their female associates assimilated to the general fashion ; but 
now, when they meet in more equal numbers, there is a re- 
finement of feeling and a delicacy of expression unknown to 



PREFACE. V 

the pages of any former age. What the elevation of woman 
has clone for the reform of social manners, her educated mind 
is doing for our books. 

Nothing shows the superiority of women in our day to 
those of past centuries, more than a comparison of their 
writings. For this reason, specimens will be given of their 
verse, from the earliest known, Juliana Berners, down to the 
latest issues from the British press : and it will readily be 
seen how insignificant even " the matchless Orinda" is by 
the side of those least distinguished among her modern sis- 
ters ; nor has care been omitted to preserve something from 
the pens of some who derived celebrity from the mention of 
their names by the better authors of their day, as the Mrs. 
Williams of Dr. Johnson, or the Lactilla of Hannah More ; 
since, little merit as their productions may have, they pos- 
sess an interest from such accidental circumstances, and 
serve to show how small a portion of talent then made a wo- 
man remarkable. In fact, our volume aims at a higher merit 
than that which belongs to a mere compilation of extracts, 
and presents a history of female English poetry. 

It is painful to observe how many of the writers, sketches 
of whose lives are hereafter given, have been unhappy in 
their domestic histories. In what way shall we account for 
this ? Statistical analogy will not suffer a belief that Provi- 
dence assigns to literary women worse husbands than to those 
of any other class ; yet, certainly a far greater proportion of 
literary wives have asked our sympathy for their sorrows. 
Perhaps .ZEsop's moral, that " the lions have no painters," 
has some application here ; as we usually get but one side of 
the story ; and it is difficult to impeach the justice of com- 
plaints breathed forth in eloquent numbers. There are also, 

1 A 



VI PREFACE. 

doubtless, many cases in which the unhappiness was the oc- 
casion of making the authoress. A happy wife and mother, 
cheerfully busy in her well ordered household, has little leisure 
and less inclination to solicit the notice of the world beyond 
her threshold, leaving us ignorant of " the sweet Sappho in a 
housewife lost.'''' Quintilian says, that the Gracchi " owed 
their eloquence as much as their birth to their mother ;" nor 
can we doubt that there is many a Cornelia in our own more 
fortunate times, who can point to her sons and say, "these 
are my books ;" for few mothers, however successful in its 
practice, have written upon the theory of education, while 
scores of unmarried ladies have elaborated tomes to prove the 
truth of the Scotch proverb : " Maidens' bairns are a' weel 
guided." Servants may be governed with kindly discretion, 
and family tables made elegant with savoury viands, by those 
who have never written essays on domestic commonwealths, 
like Miss Sedgwick, or a cookery book, like Miss Leslie. 
Besides, the harmony of married life depends very much 
upon a due proportion of character in the husband and the 
wife. A man is ordinarily satisfied with affectionate gentle- 
ness from his chosen partner, and, if she makes him happy, 
asks no more ; a woman seeks for similar kindness, but also 
for distinction in her husband. When, therefore, a woman 
of talent finds herself linked to a dull, prosaic mortal, inca- 
pable of appreciating the high-wrought sentiments which fan 
the fires of genius, and only known to the world as the one 
whose name she has dignified with the matronly prefix, it is 
not difficult to guess that her disgust will soon be manifested 
and provoke harshness in return, until each sighs for a quiet 
" dinner of herbs on the housetop." This tendency may be 
increased by exalted ideas of a husband's devotion, and the 
paradisiacal delights of wedded love, such as are seldom 
found except in some sun-lighted mansion of cloud. The 



PREFACE. Vll 

gates of Eden are still shut against our Eves and Adams. 
Dinners do not grow " spontaneous on umbrageous trees," 
nor flower-beds suffice for comfortable couches ; but kitchens 
and laundries are among the consequences of the fall. The 
Adam who has been toiling all day, digging the illiberal earth 
with the sweat on his face, is but too apt, at evening, to crave 
a refreshment more substantial than fruits of the imagination ; 
and though his Eve be a tenth muse, if she be nothing less 
supernatural, the chances are that they may both taste the 
bitter " fruit of the knowledge of evil." Poor Phillis Wheat- 
ley, the sable poetess of Boston, after supping with Horace 
at his Sabine farm, broke her heart because her brute of a 
husband insisted upon her learning more domestic accom- 
plishments ; and it is, doubtless, true, that the restlessness of 
genius, its impatience of steady rules, its morbid sensitive- 
ness, have unfitted many a literary woman in higher life for 
the every day and every hour exactions of home. Flattery 
is as necessary to an author as oil to a lamp ; and the contrast 
between the brilliant conversazione, when she was incensed 
with applauses, and the dullness of her own fireside, is a se- 
vere trial of her domestic virtues. Public exhibition of any 
kind rarely fails to impair the feminineness, which is the true 
cestus of woman's power over man's heart ; and it were as 
easy to pass through a furnace seven times heated, without 
harm, as through an acclaiming crowd. Some there are who 
have endured the ordeal and not a smell of fire lingered on 
their garments ; but an angel was with them in the flames. 
These remarks are not made in a spirit of unfeeling censure 
toward those gifted women, whose trials of heart have been 
made sadly illustrious by their talent ; not a few of whom de- 
serve, as they receive, unqualified sympathy ; but it is hardly 
fair to make their remarkable experience, in every case, the 
fault only of their husbands. At least we may suspect some 



PREFACE. 



of them of imprudence in their choice, or of mismanagement 
afterwards. 

It is certainly remarkable on the other hand, that, when 
literary women have been united to men of similar tastes (as 
the everlasting Duchess of Newcastle, delightful Mary Howitt, 
who calls her husband " my literary associate for more than 
a quarter of a century, and my best friend," and she, who 
changed a name which thousands had loved her by, to be the 
gentle nurse of Southey's declining years), their intellectual 
pursuits only served to enhance the charms of their homes. 
Habits of authorship cannot in themselves be unfavourable to 
w T omen's healthfulness of body or mind, as the extreme old 
age which many of them, especially those who have been 
unmarried or a long time widows, show ; for example, Miss 
Carter, Mrs. Grant, Hannah More, the " octogenarian" co- 
quette, Mrs. Piozzi, who passed the mortal limit of fourscore ; 
Miss Edgew r orth, Miss Porter, and Joanna Baillie, who yet 
live. The moral of the w T hole is, that genius is not necessa- 
rily incompatible with a woman's happiness, particularly if it 
be governed by common sense. 

The prominent fault of female poetical writers is an unwil- 
lingness to apply the pruning-knife and the pumice-stone. 
They write from impulse, and rapidly as they think. The 
strange faculty, which women have, of reaching conclusions 
(and, in the main, safe conclusions) without the slow process 
of reasoning through w-hich men have to pass ; the strong 
moral instincts with which their nature is endowed, far above 
that of the other sex ; their keen and discerning sensibility 
to the tender, the beautiful and the luxuriant, render thern 
averse to critical restraints. With the exception of Joanna 
Baillie and Mrs. Tighe, scarcely any of them seem to have 



PREFACE. IX 

inverted their pen. As the line came first to the brain, so it 
was written ; as it was written, so it was printed. Mrs. 
Hemans's melody was as much improvisation as Miss Lon- 
don's ; Mrs. Butler disdains to chip off her roughest corners ; 
Mrs. Norton exults in the swiftness of her strength, and Miss 
Barrett glories in her expedients to save time, though they be 
false rhymes or distorted syllables. A due degree of conde- 
scension to take more pains w-ould have gained for either of 
these ladies an increase of excellence, which even their genius 
might covet. 

The editor has purposely omitted selections from several 
of the older female writers of rhyme, and more of the multi- 
tude in the present age, taking as he passed along, only those 
of real merit or accidental distinction, to show the progress 
of feminine talent ; and reserving the bulk of the book for 
more copious extracts from those whose writings are most 
highly appreciated for moral and poetical excellence. Thus, 
while a due regard has been paid to antiquarian curiosity, 
our book presents a treasury of well nigh all the best pieces 
from the pens of the British female poets ; which will be 
more to the general taste. The number of women writing 
occasionally for magazines or annuals, is beyond count, and 
an interesting book might be compiled from such sources ; 
but it has been judged most for the reader's benefit that we 
should confine ourselves chiefly to the list of those whose 
poems have been published or collected in separate volumes 
of their own. 

In the selection of the pieces, the first object has been to 

give fair examples of each writer's peculiar characteristics ; 

and, where the rule could be followed without too great loss, 

those which are more frequently met with have been put 

1* 



PREFACE 



aside for pieces of equal merit less familiar to the reader ; 
and, if they be to his taste, the editor will congratulate him- 
self on his own, since his only claim for thanks, as his only 
merit, is having furnished the string which binds the flowers 
together. If any should censure him as being too lenient in 
his criticisms, and unsparing in his praise, his only excuse is 
that he has more pleasure in giving credit than in detraction, 
and gladly suffered the chaff to be blown away, while he 
secured the golden grains. Finding fault is ever an unwel- 
come office, but especially distasteful to an American when a 
lady is the subject. 



CONTENTS 



JULIANA BERNERS 

Biographical Sketch page 13 

Bestys of Venery 14 

Bestys of the Chace 14 

ANNE BOLEYN 

Biographical Sketch 16 

CATHARINE PARR 

Biographical Sketch 17 

LADY BERGAVENNY 

Biographical Sketch 18 

COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL 

Biographical Sketch 19 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS 

Biographical Sketch 20 

Translation by a Scotch Lady. ... 21 

Hymn 21 

Translation by the Editor 22 

QUEEN ELIZABETH 

Biographical Sketch 22 

A Ditty 23 

COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 

Biographical Sketch 24 

Psalm lxiii 24 

Chorus from the Tragedy of An- 
tony 25 

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW 

Biographical Sketch 26 

Revenge of Injuries 26 

KATHARINE PHILIPS 

Biographical Sketch 28 

On II. Cor. v. 19 30 

To Mrs. M. A. at Parting 31 

The Virgin 32 

Against Pleasure— An Ode 33 

A Country Life 34 

DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE 

Biographical Sketch 35 

Queen Mab 36 

Melancholy 37 

Her Dwelling 37 



ANNA, MARCHIONESS OF 
WHARTON 
Biographical Sketch 38 

ANNE KILLIGREW 

Biographical Sketch 39 

The Discontent 39 

ANNE, COUNTESS OF WIN- 
CHELSEA 

Biographical Sketch 41 

Life's Progress 41 

MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE 

Biographical Sketch 43 

On Happiness 44 

Ode to Love 46 

A Hymn 47 

ANNE HOWARD, VISCOUNTESS 
IRWIN 
Biographical Sketch 49 

FRANCES THYNNE, DUCHESS 
OF SOMERSET 

Biographical Sketch 51 

A Rural Meditation 52 

A Midnight Hymn 52 

The Dying Christian's Hope 53 

THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 

Biographical Sketch 54 

LADY MARY WORTLEY MON- 
TAGU 

Biographical Sketch 54 

Her Estimate of Love 54 

Reply to Pope's Imitation of the 
First Satire of the Second Book 

of Horace 55 

Lines written shortly after her 

Marriage 57 

Experience Late 58 

ANNA CHAMBER, COUNTESS 
TEMPLE 

Biographical Sketch 53 

To the Duchess of Leeds 58 

(xi) 



CONTENTS, 



MRS ANNE STEELE 

Biographical Sketch 

A Morning Hymn 

Resignation 

To \l> Watch 

ANNA WILLIAMS 

Biographical Sketch 

Sonnel to a Lady of Indiscreet 

Virtue 

On a Lady Singing 

ELIZABETH CARTER 

Biographical Sketch 

Ode to Wisdom 

A Night Piece 

Written at Midnight in a Thunder 

Sturm 

MRS. GREVILLE 

Biographical Sketch 

Prayer for Indifference 

Reply by t 1 1 • Countess of C 

LADV ANNE BARNARD 

Biographical Sketch 

Auld Robin Grav 



MISS JANE ELLIOT 

I. The Flowers of the Forest. 



MRS. COCKBURN 

Biographical Sketch 

II. The Flowers of the Forest 

MRS. ANNE HUNTER 

Biographical Sketch 

Song 

Song 

Indian Death Song 

The Lot of Thousands 

SUSANNA RLAMIRE 

Biographical Sketch 

What ails this Heart o' mine. . 

The Siller Croun 

The Waefu' Heart 

Auld Robin Forbes 

MRS. MARY ROBINSON 

Biographical Sketch 

Stanzas 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH 

Biographical Sketch 

Sonnets : 

To tin' Moon 

The Departure id' the Nightingale 

The Close of Spring 

Should the Lone Wanderer 

To Night 



To Tranquillitj 91 

Written in a Churchyard 92 

English Scenery 92 

The Hot-house Rose 94 

Ode I" the .Missel Thrush 95 

The Nautilus 96 

The Cricket 97 

ANNA SI0W Alii) 

Biographical Sketch 98 

The Anniversary 98 

MRS. TIC I IE 

Biographical Sketch 102 

First Visit of Love to Pysche 103 

Palace of Love 105 

Psyche's Discovery of Love 107 

Jealousy HO 

'I'lii' Power of Love to Bless Ill 

Delay of Love Compensated 114 

Sonnet H5 

To Time 116 

Hagar in the l) isert 110 

On receiving a Branch of Mezere- 
on which flowered at Woodstock 118 

MRS. THRALE 

Biographical Sketch 120 

The Three Warnings 121 

MRS. BARBAULD 

Biographical Sketch 124 

Address to the Deity ISS 

Hymn 120 

Hymn for Easier-Sunday 128 

Hymn. ■• ■ 129 

Hymn to Content 130 

To Wisdom 132 

Ode to Spring 133 

Hymns in Prose: 

Behold the Shepherd 134 

Winter 136 

The Happj Land 137 

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS 

Biographical Sketch 138 

Tiusi in Providence 138 

Song 139 

A Paraphrase 140 

MISS HANNAH MORE 

Biographical Sketch 141 

Patriotism 142 

A Suspected Wife 143 

Scenes of Early Love 145 

Love and Honour 146 

Virtue 140 

Morning Hymn 147 

Unostentatious Virtue 148 



CONTENTS. 



Death 149 

Romancing 150 

Indolence 151 

ANNE YEARSLY 

Biographical Sketch 152 

To Stella 153 

Clifton Hill 154 

MRS. GRANT, OF LAGGAN 

Biographical Sketch 156 

On a Sprig of Heath 15ti 

The Highland Poor 158 

JOANNA BAILLIE 

Biographical Sketch 159 

A Battle Field 161 

The Prisoner 161 

A Brave Man's Dread of Death. . . 162 

Passing Joy 163 

A Woman's Picture of Country 

Life 104 

The Beacon 165 

The Father and his Child 166 

The Travellers by Night 167 

The Kitten 171 

Reveille 174 

Song 175 

Song 176 

Song 177 

Bridal Song 178 

Serenade 179 

Hymn of the Martyr 180 

MARIA JANE JEWSBURY 

Biographical Sketch 180 

There is None like unto Thee 181 

The Weeper at the Sepulchre 182 

A Dream of the Future 183 

MRS. HEMANS 

Biographical Sketch 188 

The Exile of the Morea 191 

The Hopelessness of Unbelief. ... 194 

The Weakness of Unbelief 196 

Prayer for Strength 197 

Death of the Princess Charlotte. . 199 

A Mother's Love 200 

A Mother's Courage 201 

Fortitude more than Bravery 202 

Death better than Shame 203 

Death in Beauty 203 

The Refugee in the Forest and His 

Boy 204 

The Persecuted 205 

Freedom of Speech 206 



The Roma i Catholic Wife 206 

Death and Burial at Sea 208 

Tyranny working out Freedom .. 212 

Tli-> Joy of Battle 213 

To the Fountain of Bandusia .... 213 

The Sleep ir of Marathon 214 

The Spartans March 215 

The Urn and the Sword 216 

The Messenger Bird 217 

A Dirge 218 

Farewell to the Dead 219 

The Treasures of the Deep 220 

Bring Flowers 222 

The Revellers 223 

The Conqueror's Sleep 225 

The Songs of Our Fathers 226 

Kindred Hearts 228 

Casabianca 229 

The Hebrew Mother 231 

The Wreck 233 

The Trumpet 235 

Evening Prayer 236 

The Hour of Death 237 

The Hour of Prayer 239 

The Dreamer 240 

The Wi ngs of a Dove 241 

I go, Sweet Friends 243 

To a Child on His Birthday 243 

Sound of the Sea 244 

Death of the Hunter's Daughter. . 245 

The Homes of England 246 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . . 248 

The Palm Tree . . . . 249 

The Spells of Home 251 

The Graves of a Household 253 

The Vaudois' Wife 254 

The Stranger's Heart 257 

The Sleeper 258 

The Angler 259 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese 260 

Woman and Fame 262 

Let Her Depart 263 

I would We had not Met Again . . 263 

Come to Me, Gentle Sleep 264 

Christ Stilling the Tempest 265 

Hymn of the Vaudois 266 

The Agony in the Garden 207 

SONNKTS : 

Trees 268 

Foiiage 269 

Flowers in a Sick-room 269 

Sabbath 270 

A Poets Dying Hymn 271 



xiv 



CONTENTS 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON 

Biographical Sketch .... 274 

Petrarch ami Laura 270 

The Love of a Poetess 277 

Love, Hope, and Beauty 2711 

Lines of Life 271) I 

When should Lovers Breathe their 

Vows 283 

The Little Shroud 284 

Expectation 285 

The Forgotten One 286' 

The Changed Home 2^Vt 

Song 2H0 

Sou- 21)1 

Crescent! us 291 

The Venture of a Poet 293 

Success 293 

The Floating Beacon 294 

Change 295 

The Snowdrop 29G 

The Widow's Mite 297 

Last Verses of L. E. L 299 

LADY FLORA HASTINGS 

Biographical Sketch 301 

Song 301 

Italy 302 

The Swan Song 304 

MARY-ANNE BROWNE 

Biographical Sketch 305 

The Forgotten 305 

She was not Made for Happiness . 307 

The Sky 308 

Thy Will be Done 310 

CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH 

Biographical Sketch 31 1 

Together and Alone 312 

Stanzas 312 

"" ' Mariner's Midnight Hymn... 313 

MRS. AMELIA OP1E 

Biographical Sketch 315 

Song 315 

Song 310 

Address to a Dying Friend 316 

MARY RUSSELL M1TFORD 

Biographical Sketch 318 

The Charm 319 

Her Friend 319 

Death Scene 320 



Claudia Pleading for Angelo 321 

Sons 324 

DOROTHEA PRIMROSE CAMP- 
BELL, OF ZETLAND 

Biographical Sketch 325 

Address to Zetland 325 

Moonlight 320 

MRS. SOUTHEY 

Biographical Sketch 327 

Autumn Flowers 327 

To a Dying Infant 328 

I never Cast a Flow er Aw ay 332 

The Primrose 332 

Aura Ven i 'VH 

The Last Journey 335 

To Death 337 

MARY HOW1TT 

Biographical Sketch 339 

Tibbie Inglis, or the Scholar's 

Wooing 340 

The Fairies of the Caldon Low. . . 343 

The Boy of Heaven 346 

Beatrice^ 350 

Father is Coming 353 

Judgment 355 

The Heart of the Outcast 355 

Village Children 357 

The Fishing Bqat 358 

Rejoicing in Heaven 359 

FRANCES BROWN 

Biographical Sketch 3C0 

The Spanish Conquests in Ame- 
rica 360 

The Maid of the Rhone 363 

Let us Return 367 

The Picture of the Dead 368 

Streams 369 

Dreams of tic Dead 371 

The Stars of Night 373 

Stephens, the Traveller. r >ng the 

Ruins of Copan 374 

LADY EMMELINE STUART 
WORTLEY 

Biographical Sketch 376 

Night and Morning 377 

Dreams 379 

Evening 382 

MRS. NORTON 

Biographical Sketch 384 

Twilight 385 



CONTENTS, 



XV 



A Mother 389 

Obscurity of Woman's Worth 390 

The Visionary Portrait 39] 

The Sense of Beauty 393 

The Autumn Wind 397 

Weep not for Him that Dietb 398 

The Child of Earth 399 

Sonnet 401 

Sonnet.— To my Books 401 

Sonnet.— The Weaver 40-2 

Bingen 402 

The New-born Child 404 

Prayer for the Young Prince 407 

Common Blessings 409 

The Artist-Heart 409 

The Prison Chaplain 410 

A Fable 411 

Neutrality 411 

The Blind 412 

MISS ELIZA COOK 

Biographical Sketch 413 

The Free 413 

Buttercups and Daisies 414 

Truth 416 

Stanzas 417 

Cupid's Arrow 418 

The Loved One was not There. .. 418 

Home in the Heart 419 

Fire 420 

Stanzas 421 

The Welcome Back 422 

Washington 422 

'Tis Sweet to Love in Childhood. . 424 

The Last Good-bye 425 

The Heart, the Heart 426 

The Dying Old Man to his Young 

Wife 427 

Harvest Song 429 

MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE 

Biographical Sketch 430 

Love 430 

« A Mother over Her Child Devoted 

to Death 431 

MISS LOWE 

Biographical Sketch 432 

Hour of Night Departing 432 

Hour of Dawn 433 

FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER 

Biographical Sketch 434 

1 1 te Ag lik ■ Anothar 435 



The Queen and De Bourbon 436 

A Soldier's Love 437 

A Fair and Virtuous Woman .... 437 

Woman's Heart 438 

Charity for the Great 438 

An Old Home 439 

True and False Love 440 

Sadness in Joy 440 

The Joy of Love 441 

Despair Fearless 442 

Youth Clinging to Life 443 

Song 443 

Upon a Branch of Flowering Aca- 
cia 444 

Impromptu 445 

Translation of a Sicilian Song . .. 446 

Genius and Love 446 

The Ideal 448 

Sonnet 449 

Past Hours 449 

Look up 450 

Youth and Age 450 

To Pius IX 450 

Sonnet 451 

Departing 451 

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT 

Biographical Sketch 452 

Inanimate Creatures 453 

Love of the Redeemed to God .... 454 

The Sleeping Babe 455 

The Mother's Prayer 456 

The Child's Answer 458 

The City 461 

The Mediator 463 

The Pet-name 464 

The Wail of the Spirit of Earth. . 467 

Chorus after the Promise 468 

The Lady's Yes 469 

A Child Asleep 470 

Catarina to Camoens 472 

The Romance of the Swan's Nest 477 

Cowper's Grave 480 

The Sleep 484 

Sonnet.— Tears 486 

Sonnet.— Comfort 486 

Sonnet.— Exaggeration 487 

MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG 

Biographical Sketch 487 

Every-Day Heroes 487 

The Poor Man's Flower 489 



THE 



BEITISH FEMALE POETS, 



JULIANA BERNERS. 

Dame (or Lady) Julyans, or Juliana, Barnes or Berners, is the first 
English woman to whom has been ascribed any English rhyme. Com- 
mon report gives the time of her birth near the close of the 14th 
century at Roding Berners, (or Bernish Roding,) Dunmore, Essex; 
and makes her the daughter of Sir James Berners, though more accu- 
rate genealogists pronounce this an error. She was the Prioress of 
Sopewell Nunnery, (near St. Albans,) Hertfordshire. To her is as- 
cribed the authorship of the celebrated Book of St. Albans, first printed 
at Westminster, by Wynkyn de Worde, in 1486. It contained three 
treatises: On Hawking; Hunting; and Coat Armour; to which was 
added, in a subsequent edition, another on Fishing with an Angle, most 
probably by another hand, as it diners much in style and temper. 
Bales describes her as "an ingenious virago," whose personal and 
mental endowments were of the highest character. " Amongst the 
many solaces of human life she held the sports of the field in great esti- 
mation, and was desirous of conveying these arts, by her writings, to 
the youth, as the first elements of nobility." It may, however, be 
doubted whether any of the treatises named were from her hand, except 
the Treatise on Hunting, at the end of which is added : SEjqplfcft tonme 
.UttliMiis Sterne's troctrfne fit Ijcc 33oftc of ?l}unth\Q. Even this is said 
to be only a versification of a tract on the subject by Sir Tristram. 
The piece being merely rules for hunting put into rhyme, it cannot be 
quoted from as poetry ; and an extract is given only to show the style 
and language: 

2 (13) 



14 JULIANA BERNERS 



BESTYS OF VENERY. 



Where so ever ye fare by fryth or by fell : 

My dere divide take bede how Trystam doo you tell. 

How many manere bestys of venery there were : 

Lysten to your dame and she shall you lere. 

Four manere of bestis of venere there are : 

The fyrste of theym is the harte : the seconde is the hare 

The boore is one of tho : the wulfe and not one mo. 

BESTYS OF THE CHACE. 

And where that ye come in playne or in place : 
I shall you tell whyche ben bestys of en chace : 
One of theym is the bucke : a nother is the doo : 
The foxe and the marteron : and the wylde roo : 
And ye shall my dere chylde other bestys all : 
Where so ye theym fynde Rascall ye shall them call. 



The following song, being- printed with the rhymes on Hunting, and 
ascribed to Dame Juliana, may be hers : 

A faythfulle frende wold I fayne finde, 

To fynde hym there he myghte be founde ; 
But now is the worlcle wext so unkynde, 

Y l trenship is fall to the grounde ; 
(Now a frende I have founde) 

That I woll nother banne ne curse, 
But of all frendes in felde or towne, 

Ever, gramercy, myn own purse. 

My purse it is my prevy wyfe, 

This songe I dare bothe synge and saye ; 

It party th men of moche stryfe, 

When every man for himselfe shall pay; 

(As I ryde in riche array) 

For gold &. sylver men woll me flouryssh ; 



JULIANA BE RNERS. 15 

By this matere I dare well say, 
Ever gramercy, myn owne purse ! 

As I ryde wyth golde so rede, 

And have to doo wyth londys lawe, 
Men for my money woll make me spede, 

And for my goodes they woll me knawe , 
More and less to me woll drawe 

Bothe the better and the wurse; 
By this matere I saye in sawe, 

Ever gramercy myn owne purse ! 

It fell by me upon a tyme, 

(As it hath doo by many one mo) 
My horse, my nete, my shepe, my swyne, 

And all my goodes they fell me fro ; 
I went to my frendes and told theym so, 

And home agayne they badde me trusse; 
I sayd agayn whan I was wo, 

Ever gramercy myn owne purse ! 

Therefore I rede you, syres all, 

So assaye your frendes or ye have nede, 
For, an ye come downe, and have a fall, 

Full fewe of theym for you woll grede. 
Therefore assaye theym everychone, 

Bothe the better and the wurse. 
Our Lorde that shope both sonne and mone, 

Sende us spendynge in our purse ! 



ANNE BOLEYN. 

To this accomplished and unfortunate lady, whose beauty attracted 
the fatal notice, but could not fix the brutal passion, of the king, who 
"spared not man in his wrath nor woman in his lust," is sometimes 
ascribed the following touching poems; though neitner Mr. Warton 
nor Mr. Ritson think justly. 



Defiled is my name full sore, 

Through cruel spyte and false report, 
That I may saye for evermore 

Farewell, my joy! adewe, comfort! 
For wrongfully ye judge of ine 

Unto my fame a mortall wounde ; 
Say what ye lyst, it will not be 

Ye seek for that can not be found. 



O Death ! rocke me on sleepe, 

Bringe me on quiet reste ; 
Let passe my very guiltlesse goste 

Out of my carefull breste. 
Toll on the passinge bell, 
Ringe out the doleful knell, 
Let the sounde my dethe tell, 

For I must dye, 

There is no remedy, 

For now I dye. 

(10) 



ANNEBOLEYN. 17 

My paynes who can express ? 

Alas ! they are so stronge, 
My dolor will not suffer strength 

My lyfe for to prolonge ; 
Toll on the passinge bell, &c. 

Alone, in prison stronge, 

I wayle my destenye ; 
Wo worth this cruel hap that I 

Should taste this miserye. 
Toll on the passinge bell, &c. 

Farewell my pleasures past, 

Welcum my present payne ! 
I fele my torments so increse 

That lyfe cannot remayne. 
Cease now the passinge bell, 
Rong is my dolefull knell 
For the sound my dethe doth tell ; 

Death doth drawe nye, 

Sound my end dolefully; 

For now I dye. 



CATHARINE PARR, 

The sixth wife of Henry VIII., was an accomplished woman, and as 
we learn from Strype, wrote and published some pious psalms in imita- 
tion of David ; but none of them have sufficient merit to find a place 
in any compilation. 





LADY BEftGAVENNY, 




Most probably (according to Park's addenda to Walpol 


a's Royal and 


Noble 


Authors) the Lady Frances Manners, daughter of the earl of 


Rutland and wife of Henry, Lord Bergavenny. She was 


the authoress 


of several pieces in " The Monument of Matrons," &c, 


compiled by 


Thomas Bentley (about) 1582; and of " Precious Pedes of perfect God- 


liness,' 


begun by her and finished by John Philip. At the end of the 


former 


is this acrostic on her own name : 

F rom sinfulness preserve me, Lord, 

R enevv my spirit in my hart-, 

A nd let my tongue therewith accord, 

U ttering all goodness for his part. 

N o thought let there arise in me 

C ontrairie to thy precepts ten; 

E ver let me most mindful be 

S till for to praise thy name, Amen. 

A s of my soul, so of my bodie, 

B e thou my guider, my God ! 

U nto thee only do I crie, 

R emove from me thy furious rod. 

G raunt that my head may still devise 

A 11 things that pleasing be to thee. 

U nto mine ears, and to mine eies, 

E ver let there a watch set bee, 

N one ill that they may heare and see 

N o wicked deede let my hand do, 

Y n thy good paths let my feet go. 


(18) 



COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. 

Anne, sister of the last Lord Dacre, whose husband, Philip, earl of 
Arundel, died in the Tower, imprisoned for alleged treason, 1595. 
Lodge ascribes to her the lines below ; which he supposes were writ- 
ten on the occasion of her lord's death. Mr. Lodge characterises them 
as "in the best style of the time and in a strain of unaffected piety and 
tenderness; abounding with the imperfect beauties, as well as with 
the strong errors of an untaught poetical fancy." " They appear on 
the cover of a letter in her handwriting." The Countess died in 1630, 
at the age of 72. 



In sad and ashie weeds I sigh, 

I grone, I pine, I rnourne ; 
My oten yellow reeds I all 

To jeat and ebon turne. 
My watrie eies like wintrie skyes 

My furrowed cheekes o'erflowe ; 
All heaven knowe why, men mourne as I, 

And who can blame my woe ? 

In sable robes of night my dayes 

Of joy consumed be; 
My sorrowe sees no light; my lights 

Through sorrowe nothing see; 
For now my sonne his course hath ronne, 

And from his sphere doth goe 
To endless bed of folded lead, 

And who can blame my woe ? 

My flocke I now forsake that soe 
My sheepe my grief may knowe; 

The lilies loth to take, that since 
His death presumed to growe ; 

(19) 



20 COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. 

I envie aire because it dare 
Still breathe, and he not soe ; 

Hate earthe that doth entombe his youth, 
And who can blame my woe ? 

Not I, poore I alone — (alone 

How can this sorrowe be ?) 
Not only men make mone, but more 

Than men make mone with me. 
The gods of greenes, the mountain queenes, 

The fairy circled rowe, 
The Muses nine, and powers divine, 

Do all condole my woe. 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

This beautiful and highly accomplished woman, whose feminine 
character ill fitted her for the throne of a rude nation in the most agi- 
tated period of its history, and who had the misfortune to live among 
enemies paid to slander her, while none dared to defend her against a 
haughty, powerful rival, that united to a woman's jealousy of her supe- 
rior charms, the sternest policy of unscrupulous ambition, is now seldom 
named without melancholy interest and a wish to forget her faults in 
the trials of her circumstances. The French being her tongue from 
infancy, she preferred to write in it; and, though not strictly within the 
plan of our work, we subjoin a copy of verses written during her im- 
prisonment in Fotheringay Castle, with a Latin hymn, the musical 
cadence of which has been greatly admired, " composed and repeated" 
by her the day before her execution : 



Que suis-je, helas ! et de quoi sert la vie ? 
Pen suis fors qu'un corps prive de cueur ; 
Un ombre vayn, un object de malheur, 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 21 

Qui n'a plus rien que de mourir en vie. 
Plus ne me portez, O enemys, d'envie, 
Qui n'a plus l'esprit a la grandeur : 
J'ai consomme d'excessive douleur, 
Voitre ire en bref de voir assouvie, 
Et vous amys qui mVvez tenu chere, 
Souvenez-vous que sans cueur, et sans santey, 
Je ne scaurois auqun bon ceuvre faire. 
Et que sus bas etant assez punie, 
J'aie ma part en la joie infinie. 

TRANSLATION BY A SCOTCH LADY. 

Alas ! what am I ? and in what estate ? 

A wretched corse bereaved of its heart; 
An empty shadow, lost unfortunate, 

To die is now in life my only part. 
Foes to my greatness ! let your envy rest, 

In me no taste for grandeur now is found ; 
Consumed by grief, with heavy ills oppressed, 

Your wishes and desires will soon be crowned. 
And you, my friends, who still have held me dear, 

Bethink you, that when health and heart are fled, 

And every hope of earthly good is dead, 
'T is time to wish our sorrow ended here ; 
And that .this, punishment on earth is given 
That my pure soul may rise to endless bliss in heaven. 



O Domine Deus ! speravi in te 
O care mi Jesu ! nunc libera me. 

In dura catena, in misera pcena, desidero te ; 

Languendo, gemendo, et genu-flectendo, 

Adoro, imploro, ut liberes me ! 



22 QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

TRANSLATION BY THE EDITOR. 

My God, Jehovah, I have trusted in thee ; 

Jesus, my Saviour, now rescue thou me ! 

Like fetters of iron deep griefs me environ, — thy smile let me see ! 
With sighing, and crying, at thy feet lowly lying, 

1 adore thee, implore thee, now rescue thou me! 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

Several specimens of this vain, pedantic, but really accomplished 
and intellectual woman's poetical efforts have reached us. The follow- 
ing lines, said to have been written by her with charcoal on a shutter, 
while a prisoner at Woodstock, are given by Percy from Hentzner, as 
emended by Walpole. 



Fortune ! how thy restless wavering state 

Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt ! 
Witness this present prisonn, wither fate 
Could beare* me and the joys I quit. 
Thus causedest the guiltie to be losed 
From bandes wherein are innocents inclosed ; 
Causing the guiltles to be straight reserved, 
And freeing those that death hath well-deserved. 
But by her envy can be nothing wroughte, 
So God send to my foes all they have thoughte. 

Elizabethe, Prisonner. 



* "Could beare;" — an ancient idiom, equivalent to "did bear," 01 
; hath borne." — Percy. 



QUEEN ELIZABETH. 23 

In Hart's edition of " Royal and Noble Authors," we have a lame 
version by her of the XlVth Psalm ; and an inflated translation of the 
chorus in the second act of Seneca's Hercules CEtseus. Mr. Ellis gives 
us the following, preserved by Puttenham. It has reference to some 
supposed conspiracy in favour of Mary, Queen of Scots. 



A DITTY. 

The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy, 
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy. 
For falsehood now doth flow, and subject faith doth ebb ; 
Which would not be if reason ruled, or wisdom weaved the web. 

But clouds of toys untried do cloak aspiring minds, 

Which turn to rain of late repent by course of changed winds. 

The top of hope supposed, the root of ruth will be 

And fruitless all their grafled guiles as shortly ye shall see. 

Then dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds, 
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights, whose foresight fortune finds. 
The daughter of debate, that eke discord doth sow, 
Shall reap no gain where former rule hath taught still peace to 
grow. 

No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port, 

Our realm it brooks no stranger's force, let them elsewhere resort. 

Our rusty sword with rest, shall first his edge employ, 

To pull their tops that seek each change and gape for joy. 



COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, 

The celebrated sister of Sir Philip Sidney, whose patronage of learning 
she munificently emulated and whose literary labours she often shared. 
She married, 1576, Henry, earl of Pembroke, and died at a very advanced 
age in 1621. Conjointly with her brother she executed a metrical 
version of nearly all the Psalms, but it is impossible to distinguish their 
separate contributions. The version is by no means smooth, from an un- 
successful endeavour to be literal. Here is a good specimen : 



PSALM LXIII. 

God, the God where all my forces ly, 

How doe I hunt for thee with early haste ? 
How is for thee my spirit thirsty dry ? 

How gaspes my soul for thy refreshing taste ? 

Witnesse this waterlesse, this weary waste ; 
Whence, O Lord, that I again transferr'd might be 
Thy glorious might in sacred place to see ! 

Then on thy praise would I my lipps employ, 
With whose kind mercies nothing may contend 

No, not this life itself, whose care and joy 
In praying voice and lifted hands should end. 
This to my soul would such a banquet send, 

That sweetly fed, my mouthe should sing thy name 

In gladdest notes contented mirth could frame. 

And, lo ! even here I mind thee on my bed, 
And interrupt my sleeps with nightly thought, 

How thou hast been the target of my head, 

How thy winges shadow hath my safety wrought ; 
Ami though my body from thy view be brought, 

Yet fixed on thee my loving soide remaines 

Whose right right hand from falling me sustaines. 

(24) 



COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 25 

But such as seek my life to ruinate, 

Then shall the earth in deepest gulph receave ; 

First murd'ring blade shall end their living date, 
And then their flesh to teeth of foxes leave. 
As for the King, the King shall then conceave 

High joy in God, and all that God adore, 

When lying mouthes shall stopped lye no more. 

V 

A more fair example of her versification is found in her translation 
of the tragedy of Antony, as will be seen in this 



CHORUS. 

Lament we our mishaps, 

Drown we with tears our woe ; 

For lamentable happes 
Lamented easy growe ; 

And much lesse torment bring 

Than when they first did spring. 

We want that wofull song, 

Wherewith wood musique's queen 
Doth ease her woes among 

Fresh spring-time's bushes greene ; 
On pleasant branche alone 
Reviewing auntient raone. 

We want that mournful sound, 
That prattling Progne makes, 

On fields of Thracian ground, 
Or streames of Thracian lakes j 

To empt her breast of pain 

For Itys, by her slaine. 



26 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 

Though Halcyons do still, 

Bewailing Ceyx' lot, 
The seas with bickerings fill, 

Which his dead limmes have got, 
Not even other grave 
Than tombe of waves to have. 

And though the bird in death, 
(That most Meander loves) 

So sweetly sighes his breath 
When death his fury proves, 

As almost softs his heart, 

And almost blunts his dart. 

Yet all the plaints of those, 
Nor all their tearful 'larmes, 

Cannot conceal our woes, 

Nor serve to waile the harmes, 

In soule which we, poor we, 

To feel enforced be. 



LADY ELIZABETH CAREW, 

(WIFE OF SIR HENRY CAREW OR CAREY.) 

To this lady, Langbaine, with others, attributes a tragedy, publishea 
1613 : Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry : in which occurs the follow- 
ing excellent chorus : 

REVENGE OF INJURIES. 

The fairest action of our human life 
Is scorning to revenge an injury ; 
For who forgives without a further strife, 
His adversary's heart to him doth tie. 
And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said, 
To win the heart, than overthrow the head. 



LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 27 

If we a worthy enemy do find, 

To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; 
But if of baser metal be his mind. 

In base revenge there is no honour won. 
Who would a worthy courage overthrow, 
And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? 

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield ; 

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor : 
Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld 
The weakest lion will the loudest roar. 
Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, 
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. 

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn. 

To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; 
To scorn to be for benefits forborne ; 
To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong. 
To scorn to bear an injury in mind ; 
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. 

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, 

Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind ; 
Do we his body from our fury save, 

And let our hate prevail against our mind ? 
What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, 
Than make his foe more worthy far than he ? 

Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, 

She would to Herod then have paid her love, 
And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. 
To fix her thoughts all injury above 
Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, 
Long famous life to her had been allow'd. 



KATHARINE PHILIPS, 

Daughter of Mr. John Fowler, a London merchant, was born in 1631, 
married, at the age of 16, to James Philips, Esq., of Cardigan, and died 
of smallpox in 1664. She was much admired by the men of talent 
cotemporary with her. Jeremy Taylor, at her request, wrote and 
addressed to her, a " Discourse on Friendship." She seems to have 
formed around her a society of both sexes, each of whom received from 
her a classical name, as Philoclea, Lucasia, Palcemon, (Jer. Taylor, 
though it was also applied to Mr. Francis Finch), Silvander (Sir Ed. 
Deering), Antenor (her husband). She herself assumed that of Orinda. 
Her poems were published first surreptitiously, and greatly against her 
will, the more so as they were very incorrectly given; though she says, 
that " should any one have brought me those copies corrected and 
amended, and a thousand pounds to have bought my permission for their 
being printed, he should not have obtained it." A more accurate and full 
edition was published after her death, to which were prefixed commen- 
datory verses from several distinguished men : as the Earl of Orrery, 
who says : 

" The pencil to your pen must yield the place, 
This draws the soul, where that but draws the face ;" 

— the Earl of Roscommon, who applied to her an imitation of Horace's 
Ode, Integer vitce, &c. . Cowley, who calls her poems her "im- 
mortal, progeny," in whose 

" Birth thou no one touch dost find 
Of th' ancient curse of womankind, 
Thou bring T st not forth with pain, 
It neither travail is nor labour of thy brain ; 
So easily from thee they come, 
And there is so much room 
In the unexhausted and unfathomed womb ; 
That like the Holland Countess thou might'st bear 
A child for every day of all the fertile year ;" 

(28) 



KATHARINE PHILIPS. 

Flatman, who, speaking of her early death, adds : 
"Gone, while our expectations flew 
As high a pitch as she has done, 
Exhaled to heaven like early dew, 
Betimes the little shining drops are flown, 
Ere the drowsy world perceived that manna was come down." 

The poetical genius of the " matchless Orinda" was not of a high 
order, though abounding in antithetical conceits, and sometimes marked 
with epigrammatic point. Her moral tone is always elevated, and 
good maxims may be selected from her couplets and quatrains : 
" Friendship, like heraldry, is hereby known, 
Richest when plainest, bravest when alone. 

" He who commands himself is more a prince, 
Than he who nations keep in awe; 
Who yield to all that does their souls convince, 
Shall never need another law." 
In a piece on Controversies in Religion, she has these lines : 
"Religion which true policy befriends, 
Designed by God to serve Man's holiest ends, 
Is by that old Deceiver's subtle play 
Made the chief party in its own decay, 
And meets that Eagle's destiny, whose breast 
Felt the same shaft which his own feathers drest." 

The reader will remember the same thought as occurring in Byron's 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," when speaking of Kirke 
White's melancholy death : 

" So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
Viewed his own feathers on the fatal dart, 
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest, 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast." 
3* 



30 KATHARINE PHILIPS. 

Waller, nearly cotemporaneously with our authoress, employs the 
same figure : 

TO A LADY SINGING ONE OF HIS OWN SONGS. 

"Chloris, yourself you so excel, 

When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, 
That, like a spirit, with this spell 
Of my own teaching, I am caught. 

The eagle's fate and mine are one, 

Which in the shaft that made him die, 

Espy'd a feather of his own, 

Wherewith he wont to soar so high." 

The original is, however, in^Eschylus, who alludes to it as a fable or 
proverb in common use ; for the Scholiast, in line 808 of " The Birds " 
of Aristophanes, preserves a fragment of a lost tragedy, " The Myrmi- 
dons," which may be translated thus : 

" As runs the moral of the Libyan fable : 
The eagle, wounded by a bow-shot arrow, 
Says, as he sees the plumage in the shaft, 
' Alas ! the fatal feather is my own !' " 

The following show her best manner: 

ON II. COR. V. 19. 

"God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself." 

O what a desperate load of sins had we. 
When God must plot for our felicity ! 
When God must beg us that he may forgive, 
And dye himself before mankind could live ! 
And what still are we, when our King in vain 
Begs his lost rebels to be friends again ? 
What floods of love proceed from Heaven's smile, 
Atoned to pardon and to reconcile ! 



KATHARINE PHILIPS. 31 

He hath a Father's not a tyrant's joy, 
Shows more his power to save than to destroy. 
Did there ten thousand worlds to ruin fall, 
One God could save, one Christ redeem them all. 
Be silent then, ye narrow souls, take heed 
Lest you restrain the mercy you will need. 
But, O my soul, from these be different ; 
Imitate thou a nobler precedent ; 
As God with open arms the world does woo, 
Learn thou like God to be enlarged too ; 
As he begs thy consent to pardon thee, 
Learn to submit unto thy enemy; 
As he stands ready thee to entertain, 
Be thou as forward to return again ; 
As he was crucified for and by thee, 
Crucifie thou what caused his agony; 
And like to him be mortified to sin, 
Die to the world as he died for it then. 

TO MRS. M. A. AT PARTING. 

1 have examined and so find 

Of all that favour me, 
There's none I grieve to leave behind 

But only, only thee. 
To part with thee I needs must die 
Could parting sep'rate thee and I. 

Our changed and mingled souls are grown 

To such acquaintance now, 
That if each would resume their own, 

Alas ! we know not how. 
We have each other so engrost, 
That each is in the union lost. 

By my own temper I shall guess 
At thy felicity, 



32 KATHARINE PHILIPS. 

And only like my happiness 

Because it pleaseth thee. 
Our hearts at any time will tell 
If thou, or I, be sick or well. 

Thy leiger soul in me shall lie, 
And all my thoughts reveal ; 

Then back again with mine shall fly, 
And thence to me shall steal. 

Thus still to one another tend ; 

Such is the sacred name of Friend. 



THE VIRGIN. 

The things that make a virgin please. 
She that seeks will find them these : 
— A beauty not to art in debt, 
Rather agreeable than great; 
An eye wherein at once do meet 
The beams of kindness and of wit ; 
An undissembled innocence, 
Apt not to give, nor take offence ; 
A conversation at once free 
From passion and from subtlety ; 
A face that's modest, yet serene, 
A sober and yet lively mien ; 
The virtue which does her adorn, 
By honour guarded, not by scorn ; 
With such wise lowliness indued, 
As never can be mean or rude ; 
That prudent negligence enrich, 
And times her silence and her speech ; 
Whose equal mind does always move 
Neither a foe nor slave to love ; 
And whose religion strong and plain, 
Not superstitious nor profane. 



KATHARINE PHILIPS. 
AGAINST PLEASURE AN ODE. 

There 's no such thing as pleasure here, 

'Tis all a perfect cheat, 
Which does but shine and disappear, 

Whose charm is but deceit; 
The empty bribe of yielding souls, 
Which first betrays and then controls. 

'T is true, it looks at distance fair ; 

But if we do approach, 
The fruit of Sodom will impair, 

And perish at a touch ; 
It being than in fancy less, 
And we expect more than possess. 

For by our pleasures we are cloyed 

And so desire is done ; 
Or else, like rivers, they make wide 

The channels where they run ; 
And either way true bliss destroys, 
Making us narrow, or our joys. 

We covet pleasure easily, 

But ne'er true bliss possess ; 
For many things must make it be, 

But one may make it less ; 
Nay, were our state as we could choose it, 
'T would be consumed by fear to lose it. 

What art thou, then, thou winged air, 
More weak and swift than fame ! 

Whose next successor is despair, 
And its attendant shame. 

Th' experienced prince then reason had, 

Who said of Pleasure — "It is mad." 
c 



33 



34 KATHARINE PHILIPS. 

A COUNTRY LIFE. 

How sacred and how innocent 

A country-life appears, 
How free from tumult, discontent, 

From flattery or fears ! 

This was the first and happiest life, 
When man enjoyed himself, 

Till pride exchanged peace for strife, 
And happiness for pelf. 

'T was here the poets were inspired, 
Here taught the multitude ; 

The brave they here with honour fired, 
And civilized the rude. 

That golden age did entertain 
No passion but of love : 

The thoughts of ruling and of gain 
Did ne'er their fancies move. 

Them that do covet only rest, 

A cottage will suffice : 
It is not brave to be possessed 

Of earth, but to despise. 

Opinion is the rate of things, 

From hence our peace doth flow; 

I have a better fate than kings, 
Because I think it so. 

When all the stormy world doth roar, 
How unconcerned am I ! 

I cannot fear to tumble lower, 
Who never could be high. 



DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 35 

Secure in these unenvied walls, 

I think not on the state, 
And pity no man's ease that falls 

From his ambition's height. 

Silence and innocence are safe ; 

A heart that's nobly true, 
At all these little arts can laugh, 

That do the world subdue ! 

Besides her many original pieces, she translated The Pompey, and 
four acts of The Horace of Corneille ; which were published with her 
poems in folio, London, 1667. 



DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, 

Of the noble family of Lucas, and wife of William Cavendish, duke 
of Newcastle. Shortly after their marriage, the triumph of the Parlia- 
mentarians drove them abroad. During their exile (with the exception 
of a year and a half when she was in England) the noble pair solaced 
each other with the closest connubial friendship, and found a common 
employment in literary labours, which were continued zealously after 
the restoration, when for them they abandoned the court and lived on 
their estates in the country. Some idea may be formed of their inde- 
fatigability when it is stated that they filled about twelve volumes folio 
with poems, plays, romances, philosophical observations, history, biog- 
raphy, &c. Of these the duchess contributed the larger part, pouring 
forth through her pen whatever came into her head, never stopping to 
review her thoughts "lest it should disturb her following conceptions;" 
nay, it is said that she made her secretary sleep not far off in a truckle- 
bed, that he might be ready to get up and write any sudden thought she 
should conceive. She says of herself: " I imagine all those that have 
read my former books, will say I have writ enough, unless they were 
better ; but say what you will, it pleaseth me, and, since my delights 
are harmless, / will satisfy my humour : 



36 DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 

" For had my brain as many fancies in 't 
To fill the world, I 'd put them all in print : 
No matter whether they be well or ill exprest, 
My will is done, and that please woman best." 
The Duke's best known and best work (though she says that his plays 
were judged to be equal to Ben Jonson's) was a work on horsemanship. 
Walpole°(Lives of Royal and Noble Authors) is unsparingly satirical 
on them both : "Though 'amorous in poetry and music,' as my Lord 
Clarendon says, he was fitter to break Pegasus for a manage, than to 
mount him up the steps of Parnassus. Of all the riders of that steed, 
perhaps there have not been a more fantastic couple than his grace and 
his faithful duchess, who was never off her pillion." Certainly nothing 
can exceed her or his vanity, except the flattery they bestowed upon 
one another. Sir Egerton Brydges, in a kindly preface to her autobio- 
graphy, says, that " her powers, with the aid of a little more arrangement, 
of something more of scholastic polish, and of a moderate exertion of 
maturer judgment, might have produced writings which posterity would 
have esteemed both for their instruction and amusement. But I must 
confess that she wanted the primary qualities of genius. . . She had not 
the talent of seizing "a proper selection of circumstances. . . She wanted 
taste. She knew not what to obtrude and what to leave out." She 
died in 1672. 

Her merits and peculiarities as a poetical writer may be seen in the 
following extracts; the first from "The Pastime and Recreation of the 
Queen of Fairies in Fairy-land, the centre of the earth:" the other from 
" Mirth and Melancholy." 

QUEEN M A B. 

Q,ueen Mab and all her company 

Dance on a pleasant mole hill high, 

To small straw pipes wherein great pleasure 

They take and keep time, just time and measure : 

All hand in hand, around, around, 

They dance npon the fairy-ground; 

And when she leaves her dancing hall 

She doth for her attendants call, 

To wait upon her to a bower, 

Where she doth sit under a flower, 



DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 37 

To shade her from the moonshine bright, 
Where gnats do sing for her delight ; 
The whilst the bat doth fly about 
To keep in order all the rout. 
A dewy waving leaf's made fit 
For the queen's bath, where she doth sit, 
And her white limbs in beauty show, 
Like a new fallen flake of snow ; 
Her maids do put her garments on, 
Made of the pure light from the sun, 
Which do so many colours take, 
As various objects shadows make. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound ; 
She hates the light, and is in darkness found ; 
Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, 
Which various shadows make against the wall. 
She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, 
As croaking frogs whose dwelling is in lakes ; 
The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, 
And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone ; 
The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out ; 
A mill, where rushing waters run about ; 
The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, 
Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. 
She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, 
And in a thick dark grove she takes delight ; 
In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, 
She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. 

HER DWELLING. 

I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; 
Sit on the banks by which clear waters run ; 
In summers hot down in a shade I lie ; 
My music is the buzzing of a fly ; 
4 



38 ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON. 

I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass ; 
In fields, where corn is high, I often pass ; 
Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, 
Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be ; 
Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, 
To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low ; 
In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, 
Then I do live in a small house alone ; 
Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, 
Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin ; 
And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, 
Not filled with cares how riches to increase ; 
I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures ; 
No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. 
Thus am I solitary, live alone, 
Yet better loved, the more that 1 am known ; 
And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, 
After acquaintance, it will give delight. 
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; 
Maintain your credit and your dignity. 



ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON, 

Daughter of Sir Henry Lee, and first wife of Thomas, earl of 
Wharton, wrote a number of poems and poetical translations. Waller 
addressed several sets of complimentary verses to her, and she was the 
Chloris of his poems. It is said that her paraphrase of the fifty-third 
chapter of Isaiah, gave him the idea of his two cantos of Divine Poesy. 
She died in 1685. The following graceful song of Lady Wharton's, is 
preserved in Tooke's Collection of Miscellaneous Poems. 

How hardly I concealed my tears ? 

How oft did I complain, 
When many tedious days, my fears 

Told me 1 lov'd in vain ? 



ANNEKILLIGREW. 39 

But now my joys as wild are grown, 

And hard to be concealed ; 
Sorrow may make a silent moan, 

But joy will be revealed. 

I tell it to the bleating flock, 

To every stream and tree, 
And bless the hollow murmuring rock, 

For echoing back to me. 

Thus you may see with how much joy 

We want, we wish, believe ; 
'Tis hard each passion to destroy, 

But easy to deceive. 



ANNE KILLIGREW, 

Daughter of a clergyman, and maid of honour to the Duchess of 
York, was a young lady of great accomplishments, piety, and, if we may 
trust a portrait by herself, beauty. She added to unusual learning 
much talent as a painter, and, according to her admiring contempo- 
raries, as a poetical writer. Wood calls her, " A Grace for beauty, and 
a Muse for wit." Dryden wrote an Ode on her death, which Dr. John- 
son pronounces, undoubtedly, " the noblest Ode that our language ever 
has produced ;" though few will agree with him in such rash praise. 
She died in 1685. Notwithstanding the high estimation in which she 
was held, it is difficult to select anything from the volume of her poems 
(published in 1686), worth transcribing. The following lines occur in 
an ode, entitled : 

THE DISCONTENT. 

Here take no care, take here no care, my Muse, 
Nor aught of art or labour use, 

But let thy lines rude and unpolisht go, 
Nor equal be their feet, nor murm'rous let them flow. 



40 ANNEKILLIGREW. 

The ruggeder my measures run when read, 

They'll livelier paint th 1 unequal paths that mortals tread, 

Who when th' are tempted by the smooth ascents, 

Which flatt'ring hope presents, 
Brightly they climb, and great things undertake ; 

But fatal voyages, alas ! they make. 

But O, the laurel'd fool that doats on fame, 
Whose hope's applause, whose fear's to want a name , 
Who can accept for pay 
Of what he does, what others say ; 
Exposes now to hostile arms his breast, 
To toylsome study then betrays his rest, 

Now to his soul denies a just content 

Then forces on it what it does resent ; 

And all for praise of fools ; for such are those 

Which most of the admiring crowd compose. 

O famisht soul which such their food can feed ! 
O wretched labour crowned with such a meed ! 
Too loud, O Fame ! thy trumpet is too shrill, 

To Avill a mind to rest, 

Or calm a stormy breast, 
Which asks for music soft and still. 

'Twas not Amaleck's vanquisht cry, 

Nor Israel's shout of victory, 
That could in Saul the rising passion lay ; 
'Twas the soft strain of David's lyre the evil spirit chased away. 



ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA, 

Daughter of Sir Richard Kingsmill, and wife of Heneage, earl of 
Winchelsea, published "Miscellany Poems on Several Occasions, writ- 
ten by a Lady, London, 1713, 8vo ;" besides which, several pieces are 
extant in different collections, and many in manuscript. Pope compli- 
mented her highly in some verses, to which she made a graceful reply. 
She died in 1720. Her fable of "The Atheist and the -Acorn" is well 
known; and Wordsworth says, that "excepting (her) Nocturnal 
Reverie, and a passage or two in Pope's Windsor Forest, the poetry of 
the interesting period between the publication of 'Paradise Lost,' and 
' The Seasons,' does not contain a single new image of external nature." 
The " Nocturnal Reverie," though it shows an eye for nature, is tame. 
The following is the most pleasing specimen of her talent. 



life's progress. 

How gaily is at first begun 

Our life's uncertain race ! 
Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, 
With which we just set out to run, 

Enlightens all the place. 

How smiling the world's prospect lies, 

How tempting to go through ! 
Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, 
From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise, 
Did more inviting show. 

How soft the first ideas prove 

Which wander through our minds ! 
How full the joys, how free the love, 
Which does that early season move, 
As flowers the western winds ! 

4 * (41) 



42 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA 

Our sighs are then but vernal air, 

But April drops our tears, 
Which swiftly passing, all grows fair, 
Whilst beauty compensates our care, 

And youth each vapour clears. 



But oh ! too soon, alas ! we climb, 

Scarce feeling we ascend 
The gently-rising hill of Time, 
From whence with grief we see that prime, 

And all its sweetness, end. 



The die now cast, our station known, 

Fond expectation past : 
The thorns which former days had sown, 
To crops of late repentance grown, 

Through which we toil at last. 



Whilst every care 's a driving harm, 

That helps to bear us down ; 
Which faded smiles no more can charm, 
But every tear's a winter storm, 
And every look 's a frown. 



MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE 

Was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a pious and educated gen- 
tleman, who suffered imprisonment for non-conformity at Ilchester, in 
Somersetshire, where he afterwards married, and the subject of this 
notice was born, September 11, 1674. She early displayed the con- 
siderable talent which won for her the esteem of several eminent con- 
temporaries, and a popular fame at one time quite enviable. She began 
to write verses at twelve years of age ; when little more than eighteen 
she produced her paraphrase of the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, at the 
request of Bishop Ken, who thought it worthy of his discriminating 
and decisive praise ; and in 1696, several of her poems appeared with 
the name of Philomela, a title given her, as is supposed, by her admir- 
ing friends. Uniting some beauty to her various accomplishments, she 
had several suitors for her hand, among whom was the poet Prior, who 
complimented her in a preface to his poems. She remained single 
until the year 1710, when she married Mr. Thomas Rowe, a gentle- 
man, thirteen years younger than herself, of fine, cultivated understand- 
ing. Their union was very happy and affectionate, until his death in 
1715, after which she lived in studious retirement, cultivating religion 
and letters. She died in 1736. Mrs. Rowe is better known and es- 
teemed as a moral and religious prose writer, than as a poetess. Her 
letters show a sufficiently warm imagination, though restrained by a 
strong sense of virtue. Her Devout Exercises of the Heart were edited 
after her death by Dr. Watts, and have had much favour from their 
ardent devotional rapture. Her miscellaneous works in prose and verse 
were published three years after her death in two volumes, to which were 
prefixed a number of commendatory poems by different hands, among 
them one by Dr. Watls, who says of her "divine poems :" 

" In vain I bid my tuneful powers unite ; 
My soul retired and not my tongue ; 
I was all ear, and Philomela's song 
Was all divine delight." 

(43) 



44 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. 

The following will give the reader a fair knowledge of her manner: 

ON HAPPINESS. 

Whatever diff'rent paths mankind pursue. 
Oh Happiness ! 't is thee we keep in view ! 
'T is thee in ev'ry action we intend, 
The noblest motive, and superior end ! 
Thou dost the scarcely finished soul incline ; 
Its first desire, and conscious thought, is thine ; 
Our infant breasts are swayed by thee alone, 
When pride and jealousy are yet unknown. 
Through life's obscure and wild variety, 
Our steadfast wishes never start from thee. 
Thou art of all our waking thoughts the theme ; 
We court thee too in every nightly dream : 
Th' immortal flame with equal ardour glows, 
Nor one short moment's intermission knows : 
Whether to courts or temples we repair, 
With restless zeal we search thee everywhere : 
Whether the roads that to perdition lead, 
Or those which guide us to the stars, we tread, 
Thine is the hope, th' inestimable prize, 
The glorious mark on which we fix our eyes ! 

Thy charms th' enamoured libertine entice 
Through all the wild destructive paths of vice. 
Th' advent'rous man refines on sin, and makes, 
In search of thee, to hell new beaten tracks ; 
Enchanting pleasure dances in his sight, 
And tempts him forward by a treach'rous light. 
But while thy flatt'ring smiles his thoughts inflame, 
Thou provest to him a mere fantastic name, 
A fair delusion, and a pleasing cheat, 
A gaudy vision, and a soft deceit; 
Which while the wretch pursues with eager pace, 
And seems to overtake thee in the race, 



MRS. ELIZABETH RO WE. 45 

An airy phantom mocks his close embrace ; 
His arms in vain the sportive shade would fold, 
Still like a gliding ghost it slips his fondest hold ; 
The disappointment heightens yet his rage, 
And tempts him with fresh ardour to engage ; 
Successless, but unwearied in the strife, 
He still pursues thee to the verge of life ; 
With life compelled his dotage to resign, 
The last despairing sigh he breathes is thine. 
The pious man directs his vows to thee, 
And proves thy most pathetic votary. 
Virtue itself, even virtue he regards; 
But as thy favour the fatigue rewards. 
To silent shades, and solitude obscure, 
Far from the world thou dost his steps allure ; 
But there he lives retired, a glorious epicure, 
And gladly quits the fleeting joys of sense, 
In search of bliss more lasting and intense. 
Not such as the fond lover's heart beguiles, 
When, without art, his yielding mistress smiles ; 
Not such as fills the youthful hero's mind, 
When wreaths of victory his temples bind : 
His thoughts a nobler luxury would prove, 
Such as the blessed immortals know above ; 
A spark divine like theirs his breast inflames, 
Enjoyments all divine like theirs he claims, 
Licentious and unbounded in his aims, 
To pleasure's sacred spring his soul aspires, 
There only hopes to quench his infinite desires. 
Not envious hell the passion can suppress, 
Fired by thy name, alluring Happiness ! 
Undaunted he maintains the gen'rous strife, 
And struggles for thee to the close of life ; 
Then joyful clasps thee in his dying arms, 
And yields his breath, possessed of all thy charms. 



46 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. 

ODE TO LOVE. 

Assist my doubtful muse, propitious Love, 
Let all my soul the sacred impulse prove : 
For thine 's a holy unpolluted flame, 
Howe'er the libertines profane thy name ; 
Hovve'er with impious cant, hypocrisy 
And senseless superstition blemish thee 
The pure result of sober reason thou ; 
Thy laws the strictest honour must allow ; 

Thy laws each vicious thought control : 
From thee devotion takes its flaming wings : 

Thou giv'st the noblest motion to the soul, 
And govem'st all its springs. 
To great attempts thou gen'rous minds dost move, 
And only such are privileged to love ; 
Th' heroic race, the brightest names of old, 
Were all thy glorious votaries enrolled. 

Without thee, human life 
A tedious round of circling cares would be, 

A cursed fatigue, continual strife, 
And tiresome vanity. 

Thy charms our restless griefs control, 
And calm the stormy motions of the soul : 

Before thee pride and enmity, 

With all infernal passions, fly. 

And couldst thou in the realms below 
But once display thy beauteous face, 

The damned a short redress might know, 
And ev'ry terror fly the place. 

From thee one bright unclouded smile 

Would all the torments there beguile ; 
Thy smiles th' eternal tempests could assuage, 

And make the damned forget their rage; 

The sulph'rous waves would cease to roar, 
And calmly glide along the silent shore. 



MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. 47 

No fabled Venus gave thee birth 
At Cyprus yet the goddess was not named. 
Nor at Idalia, nor at Paphos famed ; 

Nor yet was feigned from foaming seas to rise ; 
For yet no seas appeared, or fountains flowed : 

Nor yet distinguished in the skies, 
Her radiant planet glowed. 
But thou wast long ere motion sprung its race, 
Ere chaos, and immeasurable space 
Resigned their useless rights to elemental place ; 

Before the sparkling lamps on high 
Were kindled up, and hung around the sky ! 
Before the sun led on the circling hours, 
Or vital seeds produced their active powers ; 
Before the first intelligences strung 
Their golden harps, and soft preludiums sung 
To Love, the mighty cause whence their existence sprung, 
Th' ineffable Divinity, 
His own resemblance meets in thee. 
By this thy glorious lineage thou dost prove 
Thy high descent; for GOD himself is Love. 



A HYMN. 

The glorious armies of the sky 
To thee, Almighty King, 

Triumphant anthems consecrate, 
And hallelujahs sing. 

But still their most exalted flights 
Fall vastly short of thee : 

How distant then must human praise 
From thy perfections be! 



48 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. 

Yet how, my God, shall I refrain, 
When to my ravished sense 

Each creature everywhere around 
Displays thy excellence ! 

The active lights that shine above, 
In their eternal dance, 

Reveal their skilful Maker's praise 
With silent elegance. 

The blushes of the morn confess 
Tbat thou art still more fair, 

When in the East its beams revive, 
To gild the fields of air. 

The fragrant, the refreshing breeze 
Of ev'ry flow'ry bloom 

In balmy whispers own, from Thee 
Their pleasing odours come. 

The singing birds, the warbling winds, 
And waters murm'ring fall 

To praise the first Almighty Cause 
With difPrent voices call. 

Thy num'rous works exalt thee thus, 
And shall I silent be ? 

No ; rather let me cease to breathe, 
Than cease from praising Thee! 



ANNE HOWARD, VISCOUNTESS IRWIN, 

Daughter of the Earl of Carlisle, and married first to Viscount 
Irwin, afterward to Colonel Douglas. She died in 1760. She wrote, 
among other poems, a spirited defence of her sex in answer to Pope's 
Characters of Women, which Duncombe praises in his Feminead : 

" By generous minds one peeress more demands 
A grateful tribute from all female hands ; 
One, who, to shield them from the worst of foes, 
In their just cause dared Pope himself oppose. 
Their own dark forms Deceit and Envy wear, 
By Irwin touched with Truth's celestial spear ; 
By her disarmed, ye witlings, now give o'er 
Your empty sneers, and shock the sex no more ! 
Thus bold Camilla, when the Trojan chief 
Attacked her country, flew to its relief; 
Beneath her lance the bravest warriors bled, 
And fear dismayed the host which great y£neas led." 

Her own witty lines will not be unacceptable : 

Bv custom doomed to folly, sloth, and ease, 

No wonder Pope such female triflers sees ; 

Nor would the satirist confess the truth, 

Nothing so like as male and female youth; 

Nothing so like as man and woman old, 

Their joys, their woes, their hates, if truly told ; 

Though different acts seem different sexes' growth, 

'T is the same principle impels them both. 

— View daring man, strong with ambition's fire ; 

The conq'ring hero or the youthful squire, 

By different deeds aspire to deathless fame, 

One numbers man, the other numbers game 

5 d (49) 



50 ANNE HOWARD, VISCOUNTESS IRWIN. 

— View a fair nymph, blessed with superior charms, 

Whose tempting form the coldest bosom warms ; 

No eastern monarch more despotic reigns 

Than this fair tyrant of the Cyprian plains. 

Whether a crown or bauble we desire, 

Whether to learning or to dress aspire, 

Whether we wait with joy the trumpet's call, 

Or wish to shine the fairest at a ball ; 

In either sex the appetite 's the same, 

For love of power is still the love of fame. 

— Women must in a narrow orbit move, 

But power alike both males and females love. 

What makes the difference then, you may inquire, 

Between the hero and the rural squire ? 

Between the maid bred up with courtly care, 

Or she who earns by toil her daily fare ? 

Their power is stinted, but not so their will, 

Ambitious thoughts the humblest cottage fill ; 

For as they can they push their little fame, 

And try to leave behind a deathless name. 

In education all the difference lies ; 

Woman, if taught, would be as learned and wise 

As haughty man, inspired by arts and rules ; 

Where God makes one, nature makes many fools ; 

And though nugatixes are daily found, 

Flattering nugators equally abound. 

Such heads are toy-shops filled with trifling ware, 

And can each folly with each female share. 

A female mind like a rude fallow lies, 

No seeds are sown, but weeds spontaneous rise. 

As well might we expect in winter spring, 

As land unfilled a fruitful crop should bring. 

As well we might expect Peruvian ore 

We should possess, yet dig not for the store. 

Culture improves all fruits, all sorts we find, 

Wit, judgment, sense, fruits of the human mind. 



FRANCES THYNNE. 51 

Can female youth, left to weak woman's care, 
Misled by custom, Folly's fruitful heir-, 
Told that their charms a monarch may enslave ; 
That beauty, like the gods, can kill or save ; 
Taught the arcana, the mysterious arts, 
By ambush, dress to catch unwary hearts ; 
Or, wealthy born, taught to lisp French or dance, 
Their morals left, Lucretius-like, to chance ; 
Unused to books, nor virtue taught to prize, 
Whose mind a savage waste, unpeopled lies, 
Which to supply, trifles fill up the void, 
And idly busy to no end employed ; 
Can these resist, when soothing pleasure wooes ? 
Preserve their virtue, when their fame they lose ? 
Can they on other themes converse or write, 
Than what they hear all day, or dream all night ? 



FRANCES THYNNE, DUCHESS OF SOMERSET. 

This noble lady, " who had," says Walpole, " as much taste for the 
writings of others as modesty about her own," might have obtained fame 
for her talents, had not her retiring disposition and affectionate piety 
led her to prefer the society of well-chosen friends, to the applause of 
the world. Her attainments were considerable, which she employed in 
the careful education of her children, the charge of whom, and devoted 
attendance by the sick-bed of her husband, occupied the best part of her 
life. She was fond, however, of literary society, as is shown by her 
friendship for Mrs. Rowe, (she was the authoress of the letter signed 
Cleora, in Mrs. R.'s collection) ; Thomson, whom she kindly patron- 
ized, (who dedicated to her the first edition of his Spring) ; Dr. Watts, 
(who dedicated to her his Miscellaneous Thoughts in Prose and Verse); 
and Shenstone, (who addressed to her his ode on Rural Elegance). 
She died in 1754. No collection of her poems has been made, though 



52 FRANCES THYNNE. 

a number are preserved in Bingley's " Correspondence of the Countess 
of Pomfret" with our authoress. The specimens given are found in 
Dr. Watts's Miscellanies, ascribed to Eusebia. 

A RURAL MEDITATION. 

Here in the tuneful groves and flowery fields, 
Nature a thousand various beauties yields : 
The daisy and tall cowslip we behold 
Arrayed in snowy white, or freckled gold. 
The verdant prospect cherishes our sight, 
Affording joy unmixed, and calm delight; 
The forest-walks and venerable shade, 
Wide-spreading lawns, bright rills, and silent glade, 
With a religious awe our souls inspire. 
And to the heavens our raptured thoughts aspire, 
To him who sits in majesty on high, 
Who turn'd the starry arches of the sky ; 
Whose word ordained the silver Thames to flow, 
Raised all the hills, and laid the valleys low ; 
Who taught the nightingale in shades to sing, 
And bid the sky-lark warble on the wing ; 
Makes the young steer, obedient, till the land, 
And lowing heifers own the milker's hand ; 
Calms the rough sea, and stills the raging wind, 
And rules the passions of the human mind. 

A MIDNIGHT HYMN. 

To thee, all glorious, ever-blessed power, 
I consecrate this silent midnight hour, 
While solemn darkness covers o'er the sky, 
And all things wrapp'd in gentle slumbers lie ; 
Unwearied let me praise thy holy name, 
And ev'ry thought with gratitude inflame, 
For the rich mercies which thy hands impart, 
Health to my flesh, and comfort to my heart. 



FRANCES THYNNE. 

may my prayers before thy throne arise, 
An humble but accepted sacrifice ! 

And when thou shalt my weary eyelids close, 

And to my body grant a soft repose, 

May my ethereal Guardian kindly spread 

His wings, and from the tempter screen my head ! 

Grant of celestial light some piercing beams, 

To bless my sleep and sanctify my dreams. 

THE DYING CHRISTIAN'S HOPE. 

When faint, and sinking to the shades of death, 

1 gasp with pain for ev'ry lab'ring breath, 

may my soul by some blest foretaste know 
That she 's deliver'd from eternal woe ! 
May hope in Christ dispel each gloomy fear, 
And thoughts like these my drooping spirits cheer. 
What tho' my sins are of a crimson stain, 
My Saviour's blood can wash me white again : 
Tho' numerous as the twinkling stars they be, 
Or sands along the margin of the sea ; 
Or as smooth pebbles on some beachy shore, 
The mercies of th' Almighty still are more : 
He looks upon my soul with pitying eyes, 
Sees all my fears, and listens to my cries : 
He knows the frailty of each human breast, 
What passions our unguarded hearts molest, 
And for the sake of his dear dying Son, 
Will pardon all the ills that I have done. 
Arm'd with so bright a hope, I shall not fear 
To see my death hourly approach more near; 
But my faith strength'ning as my life decays, 
My dying breath shall mount to heav'n in praise. 

5* 



53 



THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, 

Named in the foregoing sketch, was also fond of rhyme, but deserves 
mention more from her munificent gift of the Arundelian marbles to the 
University of Oxford. She died in 1761. None of her verses within 
our reach, are worth room on our page. 



LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 

Though celebrated more for the bold wit and extreme cleverness of 
her letters, chiefly from Constantinople, where she accompanied her 
husband in his embassy, and from Italy, where she afterwards resided 
for the benefit of her health, Lady Mary followed the fashion of the day 
in writing - verses. These, though exhibiting the marked characteristics 
of her prose, had little poetical merit; while some of them were grossly 
offensive, from their unrestrained coarseness. During her residence at 
Twickenham, 1718, she became very intimate with her former corre- 
spondent, Pope ; but they soon quarrelled, and the irascible little poet, 
enraged by her contempt of his amorous declarations, covertly lampooned 
her and Lord Hervey, in his imitation of the first satire of the second book 
of Horace, to which she replied with great spirit and severity. To 
Lady Mary is due the high credit of introducing into England the 
Turkish practice of inoculation for the small-pox, after having had the 
courage to try the experiment upon her own infant son. Her letters 
were first published surreptitiously in 1763; but in 1803 they appeared 
with her other writings, under the sanction of her grandson, Lord Bute, 
in five volumes ; and in 1837 her great-grandson, Lord Wharncliffe, 
edited her whole works, with additional letters and facts. She was the 
eldest daughter of Evelyn Pierrepont, earl, afterwards duke of Kingston ; 
born at Thoresby, Nottinghamshire, in 1690, married to Mr. Edward 
Wortley Montagu in 1712, and died in 1762. 

HER ESTIMATE OF LOVE. 

(FROM AN EPISTLE TO THE EARL OF BURLINGTON.) 

Thus on the sands of Afric's burning plains 
However deeply made, no impress long remains ; 

(54) 



LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 55 

The slightest leaf can leave its impress there, 

The strongest form is scattered by the air ; 

So yielding the warm temper of your mind, 

So touched by every eye, so tossed by every wind*, 

Oh ! how unlike the Heav'n my soul design'd ! 

Unseen, unheard, the throng around me move ; 

Not wishing praise, insensible of love ; 

No whispers soften, nor no beauties fire ; 

Careless I see the dance, and coldly hear the lyre. 

— So num'rous herds are driven o'er the rock ; 

No print is left of all the passing flock; 

So sings the wind around the solid stone ; 

So vainly beat the waves with fruitless moan. 

Tedious the toil and great the workman's care, 

Who dares attempt to fix impressions there : 

But should some swain, more skilful than the rest 

Engrave his name upon this marble breast, 

Not rolling ages could deface that name, 

Through all the storms of life 't is still the same ; 

Though length of years with moss may shade the ground, 

Deep, though unseen, remains the secret wound. 

REPLY TO POPE'S IMITATION OF THE FIRST SATIRE OF THE 
SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. 

Thine is just such an image of his pen, 
As thou thyself art of the sons of men : 
Where our own species in burlesque we trace, 
A sign-post likeness of the human race; 

That is at once resemblance and disgrace. 

# # # # # 

If he has thorns, they all on roses grow, 
Thine like rude thistles and mean brambles show; 
With this exception, that, though rank the soil, 
Weeds as they are, they seem produced by toil. 



56 LADY MARYWORTLEY MONTAGU. 

Satire should, like a polished razor keen, 
Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen ; 
Thine is an oyster-knife, that hacks and hews ; 

'Tis the gross lust, of hate, that still annoys 
Without distinction as gross lust enjoys : 
Neither to folly nor to vice confined, 
The object of thy spleen is human kind : 
It preys on all who yield, or who resist, 
To thee 'tis provocation to exist. 
* # * # 

Not even youth and beauty can control 
The universal rancour of thy soul; 
Charms that might soften superstition's rage, 
Might humble pride, and thaw the ice of age. 
But how should'st thou by beauty's force be moved. 
No more for loving made than to be loved ? 
It was the equity of righteous Heaven 
That such a soul to such a form was given ; 
And shows the uniformity of fate, 
That one so odious should be born to hate. 
— When God created thee, one would believe 
He said the same as to the snake of Eve : 
" To human race antipathy declare, 
'Twixt them and thee be everlasting war." 
But oh ! the sequel of the sentence dread, 
And whilst you bruise their heel, beware your head. 
Nor think thy weakness shall be thy defence 
The female scold's protection in offence. 
Sure 't is as fair to beat who cannot fight 
As 't is to libel those who cannot write ; 
And if thou draw'st thy pen against the law, 
Others a cudgel or a rod may draw. 
If none with vengeance yet thy crimes pursue, 
Or give thy manifold affronts their due ; 



LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 57 

If limbs unbroken, skin without a stain, 
Unwhipt, unblanketed, unkicked, unslain, 
That wretched little carcase you retain, 
The reason is, not that the world wants eyes, 
But thou'rt so mean, they see and they despise. 
When fretted porcupine, with rancorous will 
From mounted back shoots many a harmless quill, 
Cool the spectators stand, and all the while 
Upon the angry little monster smile : 
Thus 't is with thee ; — while, impotently safe, 
You strike unwounding, we unhurt can laugh. 
Who but must laugh, this bully when he sees, 
A puny insect shivering at a breeze ? 
Or over-match'd by every blast of wind, 
Insulting and provoking all mankind. 

* * # * # 

Like the first, bold assassin's, be thy lot, 
Ne'er be thy guilt forgiven or forgot; 
But as thou hat'st, be hated by mankind, 
And with the emblem of thy crooked mind 
Marked on thy back, like Cain, by God's own hand, 
Wander like him accursed through the land. 



LINES WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER HER MARRIAGE. 

While thirst of praise, and vain desire of fame 
In every age is every woman's aim ; 
With courtship pleased, of silly trifles proud, 
Fond of a train and happy in a crowd ; 
On each proud fop bestowing some kind glance, 
Each conquest owing to some loose advance ; 
While vain coquets affect to be pursued, 
And think they 're virtuous, if not grossly lewd : 
Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide : 
In part she is to blame who has been tried, 
He comes too near, xoho comes to be denied. 



58 ANNA CHAMBER, COUNTESS TEMPLE 

EXPERIENCE LATE. 

Wisdom, slow product of laborious years, 
The only fruit that life's cold winter bears : 
Thy sacred seeds in vain in youth we lay, 
By the fierce storm of passion torn away. 

Should some remain in a rich generous soil, 
They long lie hid, and must be rais'd with toil ; 
Faintly they struggle with inclement skies, 
No sooner born than the poor planter dies. 



ANNA CHAMBER, COUNTESS TEMPLE. 

Who died 1777, was complimented by Walpole in an edition of her 
Poems, printed at Strawberry Hill, 1764 ; but scarcely deserves the 
praise he gives of having found " Sappho's lyre," though some of her 
verses are quite Lesbian in freedom. The following is the best speci- 
men of her wit I can find in the book : 

TO THE DUCHESS OF LEEDS, 

WHO, BEING ILL, DESIRED A COPY OF MY VERSES TO CURE HER. 

Phoebus, 'tis said, in ancient times, 
In physic dealt as well as rhymes ; 
Two sciences in one could blend, 
Which on each other must depend ; 
Like him, to touch the human heart, 
But modern quacks have lost the art, 
And reach of life the sacred seat ; 
They know not how its pulses beat, 
Yet take their fee and write their bill, 
In barb'rous prose resolved to kill. 

— But I, who long to save the life 
Of the best mother, friend, and wife, 
Send to your grace this mighty spell, 

— And now I hope you 're mighty well. 



MRS. ANNE STEELE, 

Daughter of a dissenting preacher at Broughton, in Hampshire, 
ranks with Toplady, Charles Wesley, Cowper and Newton, in that very 
difficult branch of composition, the devotional lyric. She also made an 
excellent version of the Psalms, which for literalness, smoothness, and 
evangelical power, may almost compare with that of Dr. Watts. None 
but those who have attempted a similar task, can appreciate the talent 
which she has displayed. Her compositions were, with few exceptions, 
all strictly devotional. She died about 1779, and her poems were col- 
lected shortly after and published in two volumes. We give the first 
lines of her most popular hymns, that the pious may know to whom they 
are indebted for the language so often employed by them in their offer- 
ings of praise, as some or all of them are to be found in the Hymn-books 
of most Christian denominations : 

" Lord, when my raptured thought surveys;" " The Saviour ! O what 
endless charms!" "Ye wretched, hungry, starving poor;" "Great 
God ! to thee my ev'ning song ;" " Come, weary souls with sins dis- 
trest ;" " Jesus, the spring of joys divine ;" " Thou only sov'reign of my 
heart ;" " Father of mercies, in thy word ;" " Dear Lord, and shall thy 
Spirit rest ;" " Deep are the wounds which sin hath made ;" " He lives, 
the great Redeemer lives !" " And will the Lord thus condescend ?" 
" Awake, awake the sacred song ;" " Should famine in the mourning 
field;" "Ye humble souls, approach your God;" "When blooming 
youth is snatched away ;" " O Thou whose tender mercy hears !" " Ah ! 
wretched, vile, ungrateful heart !" " And is the Gospel peace and love 1" 
" Dear refuge of my weary soul !" " When death appears before my 
sight;" "The Saviour calls, let ev'ry ear;" "Thou only source of true 
delight;" "Jesus, in thy transporting name;" "And did the holy and 
the just?" "To Jesus our exalted Lord;" "Jesus, what shall I do to 
show?" "Where is my God 1 ? does he retire!" "Come ye that love 
the Saviour's name ;" " How helpless guilty nature lies !" " Ye glitter- 
ing toys of earth, adieu !" &c. 

Many of these, though miserably mutilated by presumptuous hands, 
which had the impertinence to alter what they never could have written, 
will serve to make good our assertion of Mrs. Steele's merits as one 
of Israel's sweetest singers. We add one at length, which will compare 

(59) 



60 MRS. ANNE STEELE. 

favourably with the hymn in the Spectator (generally ascribed to Addison, 
but which, as the editor believes, has been shown in the preface to An- 
drew Marvell's works to be his) : " When all thy mercies, O my God." 

A MORNING HYMN. 

Lord of my life, O may thy praise 

Employ my noblest powers, 
Whose goodness lengthens out my days, 

And fills the circling hours. 

Preserved by thy almighty arm, 

I pass'd the shades of night, 
Serene and safe from ev'ry harm, 

And see returning light. 

While many spent the night in sighs, 

And restless pain and woes ; 
In gentle sleep, I closed my eyes, 

And undisturbed repose. 

When sleep, death's semblance, o'er me spread, 

And I unconscious lay, 
Thy watchful care was round my bed, 

To guard me till the day. 

O let the same almighty care 

My waking hours attend; 
From ev'ry danger, ev'ry snare, 

My heedless steps defend. 

Smile on my minutes as they roll, 

And guide my future days; 
And let thy goodness fill my soul 

With gratitude and praise. 

RESIGNATION. 

Why breathes my anxious heart the frequent sigh ? 
Why from my weak eye drops the ready tear ? 



MRS. ANNE STEELE. 61 

Is it to mark how present blessings fly ? 
Is it that griefs to come awake my fear ? 

O may I still with thankful heart enjoy 
The various gifts indulgent heaven bestows ; 
Nor let ungrateful diffidence destroy 
The present good with fear of future woes. 

Nor let me curious ask, if dark or fair 
My future hours, but in the hand divine 
With full affiance leave my every care ; 
Be humble Hope and Resignation mine. 

Celestial guests, your smile can cheer the heart, 
When melancholy spreads her deep'ning gloom ; 
O come, your animating power impart, 

And bid sweet flowers amid the desert bloom. 

# # * # # 

Be earth's quick changing scenes or dark or fair, 
On God's kind arm, O let my soul recline; 
Be heaven-born Hope, (blest antidote of care !) 
And humble cheerful Resignation mine. 

TO MY WATCH. 

Little monitor, by thee 
Let me learn what I should be - , 
Learn the round of life to fill, 
Useful and progressive still. 
Thou canst gentle hints impart 
How to regulate the heart; 
When I wind thee up at night, 
Mark each fault and set thee right, 
Let me search my bosom too, 
And my daily thoughts review; 
Mark the movements of my mind, 
Nor be easy till I find 
Latent errors brought to view, 
Till all be regular and true. 



ANNA WILLIAMS, 

Daughter of a surgeon in Wales, born 1706. Her father ruined 
himself in a vain endeavour to discover the longitude by magnetism, 
and afterwards became a pensioner at the Charter House. The 
daughter devoted herself to his care, and helped out their scanty means 
by her needle and her pen, though deprived of her sight by a cataract 
in 1746. Her virtuous piety won for her the esteem of Dr. Johnson 
and his wife, and they received her as an inmate of their home until 
her death in 1783. Garrick gave her a benefit amounting to £200, 
and under the patronage of Johnson she published Miscellanies in prose 
and verse, 1765, to which Dr. Johnson and several other friends con- 
tributed, and the sale of the work yielded her £100. Her verses are 
rather pleasing, and, in sentiment, correspond with her character. It 
is not easy to distinguish her pieces from others in the miscellanies; 
and what we give is at a venture. 

sonnet ^, 

to a lady of indiscreet virtue. 

While you, fair Anna, innocently gay, 
And free and open, all reserve disdain, 

Wherever Fancy leads securely stray, 

And conscious of no ill can fear no stain, 
Let calm Discretion guide with steady rein, 

Let early Caution twitch your gentle ear ; 
She '11 tell you Censure lays her wily train 

To blast those beauties which too bright appear. 

Ah me ! I see the monster lurking near, 

I know her haggard eye and pois'nous tongue : 

She scans your actions with malignant leer, 
Eager to wrest and represent them wrong ; 

Yet shall your conduct, circumspect and clear, 

Nor baleful touch, nor fangs envenomed, fear. 

(62) 



ELIZABETH CARTER. 63 

ON A LADY SINGING. 

When Delia strikes the trembling string, 

She charms our list'ning ears ; 
But when she joins her voice to sing, 

She emulates the spheres. 

The feathered songsters round her throng, 

And catch the soothing notes ; 
To imitate her matchless song, 

They strain their little throats. 

The constant mournful-cooing doves, 

Attentive to her strain, 
All mindful of their tender loves, 

By list'ning sooth their pain. 

Soft were the notes by Orpheus played, 

Which once recalled his bride ; 
But had he sung like thee, fair maid, 

T^e nymph had scarcely died. 



ELIZABETH CARTER, 

Daughter of the Rev. Dr. Carter, was born at Deal, in 1717. She 
is best known by her elegant translation of Epictetus, whose whole 
works she edited, with a preface and notes displaying such extensive 
erudition as to win her great praise from the learned. Her Poems on 
Several Occasions were published in 1762, with commendations from 
Lords Littleton and Bath. She contributed Nos. 44 and 100 of the 
Rambler. She was never married, and died at the advanced age of 89. 

ODE TO WISDOM. 

The Solitary bird of night 
Thro' the pale shades now wings his flight, 
And quits the time-shook tower, 



64 ELIZABETH CARTER. 

Where sheltered from the blaze of day, 
In philosophic gloom he lay, 
Beneath his ivy bower. 

With joy I hear the solemn sound, 
Which midnight echoes waft around, 

And sighing gales repeat : 
Fav'rite of Pallas ! I attend, 
And, faithful to thy summons, bend 

And bend at Wisdom's awful seat. 

She loves the cool, the silent eve, 
Where no false shows of life deceive, 

Beneath the lunar ray : 
Here Folly drops each vain disguise, 
Nor sports her gaily-coloured dyes, 

As in the glare of day. 

O Pallas ! queen of ev'ry art 

" That glads the sense or mends the heart," 

Blest source of purer joys ; 
In ev'ry form of beauty bright, 
That captivates the mental sight 

With pleasure and surprise; 

To thy unspotted shrine I bow, 
Assist thy modest, suppliant's vow, 

That breathes no wild desires : 
But, taught by thy unerring rules 
To shun the fruitless wish of fools, 

To nobler views aspires. 

Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume, 
Nor Cytherea's fading bloom, 

Be objects of my prayer ; 
Let av'rice, vanity, and pride. 
These glitt'ring envied toys divide, 

The dull rewards of care. 



ELIZABETH CARTER. 65 

To me thy better gifts impart, 
Each moral beauty of the heart. 

By studious thought refined : 
For wealth, the smiles of glad content; 
For pow'r its amplest, best extent, 

An empire o'er my mind. 

When Fortune drops her gay parade, 
When Pleasure's transient roses fade, 

And wither in the tomb, 
Unchanged is thy immortal prize, 
Thy ever-verdant laurels rise 

In undecaying bloom. 

By thee protected, I defy 

The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie 

Of ignorance and spite ; 
Alike contemn the leaden fool, 
And all the pointed ridicule 

Of undiscerning wit. 

From envy, hurry, noise, and strife, 
The dull impertinence of life, 

In thy retreat I rest ; 
Pursue thee to thy peaceful groves, 
Where Plato's sacred spirit roves, 

In all thy graces drest. 

He bid Ilyssus' tuneful stream 
Convey the philosophic theme 

Of perfect, fair, and good : 
Attentive Athens caught the sound, 
And all her list'ning sons around 

In awful silence stood. 

Reclaimed, her wild licentious youth 
Confess'd the potent voice of truth, 
And felt its just control : 
6* E 



66 ELIZABETH CARTER. 

The passions ceased their loud alarms, 
And virtue's soft persuasive charms 
O'er all their senses stole. 

Thy breath inspires the poet's song, 
The patriot's free unbiassed tongue, 

The hero's gen'rous strife : 
Thine art retirement's silent joys, 
And all the sweet endearing ties 

Of still, domestic life, 

No more to fabled names confined 
To thee, supreme, all perfect mind, 

My thoughts direct their flight: 
Wisdom 's thy gift, and all her force 
From thee derived, unchanging source 

Of intellectual light ! 

O send her sure, her steady ray 
To regulate my doubtful way, 

Thro' life's perplexing road; 
The mists of error to control ; 
And thro' its gloom direct my soul 

To happiness and good! 

A NIGHT PIECE. 

While night in solemn shade invests the pole 
And calm reflection soothes the pensive soul, 
While reason undisturbed asserts her sway, 
And life's deceitful colours fade away ; 
To thee ! all-conscious Presence ! I devote 
This peaceful interval of sober thought: 
Here all my better faculties confine ; 
And be this hour of sacred silence thine! 
If, by the day's illusive scenes misled, 
My erring soul from virtue's path has strayed; 



ELIZABETH CARTER. 57 

Snared by example, or by passion warmed, 
Some false delight my giddy sense has charmed ; 
My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove, 
And my best hopes are centered in thy love. 
Deprived of this can life one joy afford ? 
Its utmost boast a vain unmeaning word. 

But, ah ! how oft my lawless passions rove, 
And break those awful precepts I approve ! 
Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor, 
And violate the virtue I adore ! 
Oft when thy better Spirit's guardian care 
Warned my fond soul to shun the tempting snare, 
My stubborn will his gentle aid repressed, 
And checked the rising goodness in my breast; 
Mad with vain hopes, or urged by false desires, 
Stilled his soft voice, and quenched his sacred fires. 

With grief oppressed, and prostrate in the dust, 
Shouldst thou condemn, I own thy sentence just. 
But, oh ! thy softer titles let me claim, 
And plead my cause by Mercy's gentle name. 
Mercy ! that wipes the penitential tear, 
And dissipates the horrors of despair; 
From righteous justice steals the vengeful hour, 
Softens the dreadful attribute of power, 
Disarms the wrath of an offended God, 
And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood ! 

All powerful Grace, exert thy gentle sway, 
And teach my rebel passions to obey ; 
Lest lurking Folly, with insidious art, 
Regain my volatile inconstant heart! 
Shall every high resolve Devotion frames 
Be only lifeless sounds and specious names ? 
Oh rather, while thy hopes and fears control, 
In this still hour, each motion of my soul, 
Secures its safety by a sudden doom, 
And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb! 



68 ELIZABETH CARTER. 

Calm let me slumber in that dark repose, 
Till the last morn its orient beam disclose : 
Then, when the great archangel's potent sound 
Shall echo through creation's ample round, 
Waked from the sleep of death, with joy survey 
The opening splendours of eternal day. 

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT IN A THUNDER STORM. 

Let coward Guilt, with pallid Fear, 

To shelt'ring caverns fly, 
And justly dread the vengeful fate 

That thunders through the sky. 

Protected by that hand, whose law 
The threat'ning storms obey, 

Intrepid virtue smiles secure, 
As in the blaze of day. 

In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom, 

The lightning's lurid glare, 
It views the same all-gracious Power 

That breathes the vernal air. 

Thro' Nature's ever-varying scene, 

By different ways pursued, 
The one eternal end of Heaven 

Is universal good : 

With like beneficent effect 

O'er flaming aether glows, 
As when it tunes the linnet's voice, 

Or blushes in the rose. 

By reason taught to scorn those fears 

That vulgar minds molest, 
Let no fantastic terrors break 

My dear Narcissus' rest. 



MRS. GREVILLE. 69 

Thy life may all the tend'rest care 

Of Providence defend; 
And delegated angels round 

Their guardian wings extend ! 

When thro' creation's vast expanse 

The last dread thunders roll, 
Untune the concord of the sphere, 

And shake the rising soul; 

Unmoved may'st thou the final storm 

Of jarring worlds survey, 
That ushers in the glad serene 

Of everlasting day ! 



MRS. GREVILLE, 

(Whose maiden name was Fanny M'Cartney), wife of Fulke Gre- 
ville, author of Maxims, Characters, &c, 1756, wrote, about 1753, her 
Prayer for Indifference, which was very popular, and provoked several 

clever replies, the best being by the Countess of C , supposed 

to be Isabella, Countess of Carlisle, who died 1793. Mrs. Crewe was 
the daughter of Mrs. Greville ; and her second son, Captain William 
Fulke Greville, died at Dover in 1837, aged 87, from which we infer 
that her marriage was antecedent to 1749. 

PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 

Oft I 've implored the gods in vain, 

And prayed till 1 've been weary ; 
For once I '11 try my wish to gain 

Of Oberon the Fairy. 
Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, 

That lurk'st in woods unseen, 
And oft by Cynthia's silver light 

Tripp'st gaily o'er the green; 



7U MRS. GREVILLE. 

If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, 

As ancient stories tell, 
And for th' Athenian maid who loved 

Thou fbugtit'st a wondrous spell ; 

Oh deign once more t' exert thy pow'r ! 

Haply some herb or tree, 
Sov'reign as juice of western flower, 

Conceals a balm for me. 

I ask no kind return of love, 
No tempting charm to please ; 

Far from the heart those gifts remove 
That sighs for peace and ease : 

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, 

Which, like the needle true, 
Turns at the touch of joy or woe, 
But, turning, trembles too. 

Far as distress the soul can wound, 
'T is pain in each degree : 

'T is bliss but to a certain bound ; 
Beyond, is agony. 

Take then this treacherous sense of mine 
Which dooms me still to smart; 

Which pleasure can to pain refine, 
To pains new pangs impart. 

Oh haste to shed the sacred balm ! 

My shattered nerves new string; 
And for my guest, serenely calm, 

The nymph Indifference bring. 



MRS. GREVILLE. '1 

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear. 

See Expectation fly; 
And Disappointment in the rear, 

That blasts the promised joy. 

The tear which pity taught to flow 

The eye shall then disown ; 
The heart that melts for others' woe, 

Shall then scarce feel its own. 

The wounds which now each moment bleed, 

Each moment then shall close; 
And tranquil days shall still succeed 

To nights of calm repose. 

O fairy elf! but grant me this, 

This one kind comfort send; 
And so may never-fading bliss 

Thy flowery paths attend! 

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light 

Thy tiny footsteps lead 
To some new region of delight, 

Unknown to mortal tread : 

And be thy acorn goblet filled 

With heaven's ambrosial dew; 
From sweetest, freshest, flowers distilled, 

That shed fresh sweets for you! 

And what of life remains for me 

I '11 pass in sober ease ; 
Half-pleased, contented will I be, 

Content but half to please 



72 COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 

REPLY BY THE COUNTESS OF C — 



Without preamble, to my friend 
These hasty lines I 'm bid to send, 

Or give, if I am able: 
I dare not hesitate to say, 
Tho' I have trembled all the day — 

It looks so like a fable. 

Last night's adventure is my theme ; 
And should it strike you as a dream, 

Yet soon its high import 
Must make you own the matter such, 
So delicate, it were too much 

To be composed in sport. 

The moon did shine serenely bright, 
And ev'ry star did deck the night, 

While Zephyr fanned the trees; 
No more assailed my mind's repose, 
Save that yon stream, which murmuring flows, 

Did echo to the breeze. 

Enrapt in solemn thoughts I sate, 
Revolving o'er the turns of fate, 

Yet void of hope or fear ; 
When, lo ! behold an airy throng, 
With lightest steps, and jocund song, 

Surprised my eye and ear. 

A form superior to the rest 
His little voice to me addressed, 

And gently thus began : 
" I 've heard strange things from one of you, 
Pray tell me if you think 'tis true; 

Explain it if you can. 



COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 73 

" Such incense has perfumed my throne ! 
Such eloquence my heart has won ! 

I think I guess the hand : 
I know her wit and beauty too, 
But why she sends a prayer so new 
I cannot understand. 

" To light some flames, and some revive, 
To keep some others just alive, 

Full oft I am implored ; 
But, with peculiar power to please, 
To supplicate for nought but ease ! 

'T is odd, upon my word ! 

" Tell her, with fruitless care I' ve fought : 
And though my realms, with wonders fraught, 

In remedies abound, 
No grain of cold indifference 
Was ever yet allied to sense 

In all my fairy round. 

" The regions of the sky I 'd trace, 
I'd ransack every earthly place, 

Each leaf, each herb, each flower, 
To mitigate the pangs of fear, 
Dispel the clouds of black despair. 

Or lull the restless hour. 

" I would be generous as I 'm just ; 
But I obey, as others must, 

Those laws which fate has made. 
My tiny kingdom how defend, 
And what might be the horrid end, 
Should man my state invade ? 
7 



74 LADY ANNE BARNARD. 

" 'T would put your mind into a rage, 
And such unequal war to wage 

Suits not my regal duty ! 
I dare not change a first decree : 
She 's doomed to please, nor can be free 

Such is the lot of Beauty!" 

This said, he darted o'er the plain, 
And after followed all his train 

No glimpse of him I find : 
But sure I am, the little sprite 
These words, before he took his flight, 

Imprinted on my mind. 



LADY ANNE BARNARD. 

We name this lady, because she was the writer of Auld Robin Gray, 
a ballad whose natural pathos and simple truth it is impossible not to 
feel. She wrote it in 1771, but, though it soon acquired the popularity 
which it will ever retain, the secret of its authorship was not discovered 
until she herself made it known to Sir Walter Scott, fifty years after- 
wards. She caught the touching melody from the lips of a Scotch 
farm-maiden, who sang it, as but too many of the old Scotch airs were 
set, to words far too " high kilted" for polite ears. She tells us, how- 
ever, that a shrewd critic pronounced it not to be a composition of one 
in humble life, from an expression in the second verse: 

" To mak the croun a pund ;" 

for an old Scotch pound is but twenty pence ! and at that time only the 
higher classes spoke familiarly of the pound sterling. Lady Barnard 
sent to Sir Walter two continuations of the ballad, but, as the reader 
will readily imagine from the completeness of the first part, they could 
not be otherwise than failures. She was the daughter of the Earl of 
Balcarras, born 1750, married Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George 
III., in 1793, and died 1825. 



LADY ANNE BARNARD. 75 

AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at harae, 
And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, 
When my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride ; 
But saving a croun, he had naething else beside : 
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; 
And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, 

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa' ; 

My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, 

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-conrtin' me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; 
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee } 
Said, Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry me ! 

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck : 
The ship it was a wreck — why didna Jamie dee ? 
Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 

My father argued sair : my mother didna speak ; 
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break : 
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea ; 
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for 1 couldna think it he, 
Till he said, I 'm come back for to marry thee. 



76 



MISS JANE ELLIOT. 



Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say, 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away : 
I wish I were dead ! but I 'm no like to dee ; 
And why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 

I gang like a ghaist, and I care na to spin ; 
1 daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But 1 '11 do my best a gude wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. 

We are led, from quoting- Auld Robin Gray, to insert two deservedly 
favourite songs to the tune and in imitation of the old Scotch ballad : 
The Flowers of the Forest. The first written on the battle of Cullo- 
den by 

MISS JANE ELLIOT, 

sister to Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto; and the second by Miss Alicia 
Rutherford of Fermillie, afterwards 

MRS. COCKBURN, 

wife of Mr. Patrick Cockburn, Advocate, of Edinburgh. She died in 
1794. The occasion of the verses was the pecuniary ruin of many of 
her friends by some unfortunate speculations. 

I. 

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

I 've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, 

Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day ; 
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning. 

The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ; 
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, 

Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. 



MRS. COCKBURN. 77 

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, 
The bandsters are lyart, and rankled, and gray ; 

At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching — 
The flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; 
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! 

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, 

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, 

Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; 
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

II. 

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

I 've seen the smiling 
Of Fortune beguiling; 
I 've felt all its favours, and found its decay : 
Sweet was its blessing, 
Kind its caressing; 
But now 'tis fled — fled far away. 

I 've seen the forest 

Adorned the foremost 
With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay ; 

Sae bonnie was their blooming! 

Their scent the air perfuming! 
But now they are withered and weeded away. 
7* 



73 MRS. ANNE HUNTER. 

I've seen the morning 

With gold the hills adorning, 

And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. 
I've seen Tweed's silver streams, 
Shining in the sunny beams, 

Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. 

Oh, fickle Fortune, 

Why this cruel sporting? 
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day ? 

Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, 

Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; 
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 



MRS. ANNE HUNTER, 

Sister of Sir Everard Home, and widow of the celebrated anatomist 
John Hunter. She was born in 1742, and died in 1821. She enjoyed 
the intimate friendship of Mrs. Carter, and wrote delightfully, especially 
songs, some of which were set to music by Haydn : a volume of her 
verses was published in 1802. 



The season comes when first we met, 

But you return no more ; 
Why cannot I the days forget, 

Which time can ne'er restore ? 
O days too sweet, too bright to last, 
Are you indeed for ever past ? 

The fleeting shadows of delight, 

In memory I ti'ace ; 
In fancy stop their rapid flight, 



MRS. ANNE HUNTER. 

And all the past replace : 
But, ah ! I wake to endless woes, 
And tears the fading visions close ! 



O tuneful voice ! I still deplore 

Those accents which, though heard no more, 

Still vibrate on my heart ; 
In echo's cave I long to dwell, 
And still would hear the sad farewell, 

When we were doomed to part. 

Bright eyes, O that the task were mine 
To guard the liquid fires that shine, 

And round your orbits play; 
To watch them with a vestal's care, 
And feed with smiles a light so fair, 

That it may ne'er decay! 

INDIAN DEATH SONG. 

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, 
But glory remains when their lights fade away. 
Begin, you tormentors ! your threats are in vain, 
For the son of Alknomook will never complain. 

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow, 
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. 
Why so slow ? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain ? 
No ; the son of Alknomook shall never complain. 

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, 
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. 
Now the flame rises fast ; you exult in my pain ; 
But the son of Alknomook can never complain. 



80 MRS. ANNE HUNTER. 

I go to the land where my father is gone, 
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son : 
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain ; 
And thy son, O Alknomook ! has scorned to complain. 

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. 

When hope lies dead within the heart, 
By secret sorrow close concealed, 

We shrink lest looks or words impart 
What must not be revealed. 

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep ; 

To speak when one would silent be ; 
To wake when one would wish to sleep, 

And wake to agony. 

Yet such the lot by thousands cast 
Who wander in this world of care, 

And bend beneath the bitter blast, 
To save them from despair. 

But Nature waits her guests to greet, 
Where disappointment cannot come ; 

And time guides with unerring feet 
The weary wanderers home. 



SUSANNA BLAMIRE, 

A native of Cumberland (1747), who resided some years with her 
sister, the wife of Col. Graham of Duchray in Perthshire, where she 
contracted a great fondness for the Scotch music and dialect. Some 
of her songs are unsurpassed in pathos and rhythmical beauty. She 
also wrote in the dialect of her native country. Miss Blamire was 
never married, and died in 1794. Her poetical works were published, 
with a biography by Mr. Patrick Maxwell, in 1842. 

WHAT AILS THIS HEART o' MINE? 

What ails this heart o' mine ? 

What ails this watery ee ? 
What gars me a' turn pale as death 

When I take leave o' thee ? 
When thou art far awa', 

Thou 'It dearer grow to me ; 
But change o' place and change o' folk 

May gar thy fancy jee. 

When I gae out at e'en, 

Or walk at morning air, 
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say 

I used to meet thee there. 
Then I'll sit down and cry, 

And live aneath the tree, 
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 

I'll ca't a word frae thee. 

I'll hie me to the bower 

That thou wi' roses tied, 
And where wi' mony a blushing bud 

I strove myself to hide. 

F ( 81 ) 



82 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 

I '11 doat on ilka spot 

Where I ha'e been wi' thee ; 

And ca' to mind some kindly word 
By ilka burn and tree. 

THE SILLER CROHN. 

And ye sail walk in silk attire, 

And siller hae to spare, 
Gin ye '11 consent to be his bride 

Nor think o' Donald mair. 

O wha wad buy a silken goun 
Wi' a poor broken heart ? 

Or what's to me a siller croun 
Gin frae my love I part ? 

The mind, whose every wish is pure, 

Far dearer is to me : 
And ere I'm forced to break my faith, 

I'll lay me down an' dee. 

For I hae pledged my virgin troth 
Brave Donald's fate to share ; 

An' he has gi'en to me his heart, 
Wi' a' its virtues rare. 

His gentle manners wan my heart, 
He gratefu' took the gift; 

Could I but think to seek it back, 
It wad be waur than theft. 

The longest life can ne'er repay 
The love he bears to me; 

And ere I 'm forced to break my troth, 
I '11 lay me down an' dee. 



SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 83 

THE WAEFU' HEART. 

Gin living worth could win my heart, 

Ye would hae speak in vain; 
But in the darksome grave it's laid, 

Never to rise again. 

My waefu' heart lies low wi' his. 

Whose heart was only mine ; 
And O ! what a heart was that to love ! 

But I maun na repine. 

Yet O ! gin heaven in mercy soon 

Would grant the boon I crave, 
And take the life, now naething worth, 

Since Jamie 's in the grave. 

And, see, his gentle spirit comes 

To speed me on my way, 
Surprised, nae doubt, I still am here — 

Sair wondering at my stay. 

I come, I come, my Jamie dear; 

And O ! wi' what good will 
I follow wheresoe'er ye lead! 

Ye canna lead to ill. 

— She said ; and soon a deadly pale 

Her faded cheek possessed; 
Her waefu' heart forgot to beat, — 

Her sorrows soon to rest. 

AULD ROBIN FORBES. 

(IN THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT.) 

And auld Robin Forbes lies gien tern a dance, 
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ; 
I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen, 
And skipp'd wi' the best upon Forbes's green. 



84 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 

Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer, 
It brings that that's by-past and sets it down here ; 
I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace, 
When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his face. 

The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see 

In yen that was dark and hard featured leyke me ; 

And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my wit, 

And slily telt Willy that cud'nt be it. 

But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, 

And whea was mair happy thro' aw his long leyfe ? 

It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane, 

That he offen said — nea pleace was leyke his awn heame ! 

I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle, 

Where Willy was deyken, the time to beguile, 

He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast, 

And I hammered my noddle to mek out a jest. 

But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell 

There was none o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel ; 

And he spak what he thout, for I 'd hardly a plack 

When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back. 

When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame, 

And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane ; 

Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me, 

But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee. 

O Willy ! dear Willy ! it never can be 

That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me ! 

For that spot on earth that 's aye dearest to me. 

Is the turf that has covered my Willie frae me. 



MRS. MARY ROBINSON, 

The daughter of an American sea-captain named Darby, was born 
at Bristol, 1758. She received her early education at the school then 
taught in that city by Miss Hannah More and her sisters. Her mar- 
riage, at fifteen, with Mr. Robinson, was the occasion of many mis- 
fortunes. His debts throwing him into prison, a just penalty for his 
vicious extravagance, she went upon the stage, for which she had long 
before an inclination, to gain a support. Her personal charms and 
talents opened for her a brilliant career, when she formed a criminal 
intimacy with the Prince of Wales, who soon abandoned her. The 
subsequent course of her life was one of shame, rendered the more 
melancholy by the exhibition of mental powers, which would have 
adorned a life of virtue. She died at Paris in 1800. She published 
Vancreza, a romance, several smaller prose pieces, and two volumes 
of miscellaneous poems. There were in her day many admirers of her 
writings, though they have since sunk into comparative forgetfulness, 
and justly, as they are not characterized by merit sufficient to warrant 
praise. The following specimen will be recognised as having fur- 
nished two songs, popular with the grandmothers of the present 
generation. 

STANZAS. 

k 

WRITTEN BETWEEN DOVER AND CALAIS. 

Bounding billow, cease thy motion, 

Bear me not so swiftly o'er; 
Cease thy roaring, foaming ocean, 

I will tempt thy rage no more. 

Ah ! within my bosom beating, 

Varying passions wildly reign ; 
Love with pure resentment meeting, 

Throbs by turns with joy and pain. 

8 (85) 



86 MRS. MARY ROBINSON. 

Joy, that far from foes I wander 

Where their taunts can reach no more ; 

Pain, that woman's heart grows fonder, 
When her dream of bliss is o'er. 

Love, by fickle fortune banished, 
Spurned by hope, indignant flies : 

Yet when love and hope are vanished, 
Restless memory never dies. 

Far I go, where fate may lead me, 
Far across the troubled deep ; 

Where no stranger's ear shall heed me, 
Where no eye for me shall weep. 

Proud has been my fatal passion, 
Proud my injured heart shall be ! 

While each thought, each inclination, 
Still shall prove me worthy thee. 

Not one sigh shall tell my story; 

Not one tear my cheek shall stain ; 
Silent grief shall be my glory, 

Grief that stoops not to complain. 

Let the bosom prone to ranging, 
Still by ranging seek a cure ; 

Mine disdains the thought of changing, 
Proudly destined to endure. 

Yet ere far from all I treasure, 
***** ere I bid adieu; 

Ere my days of pain and measure, 
Take the song that 's still thy due. 



MRS. MARY ROBINSON. 87 

Yet believe no servile passions 

Seek to charm thy vagrant mind ; 
Well I know thy inclinations 

Wav'ring as the passing wind. 

I have loved thee, dearly loved thee, 

Through an age of worldly woe ; 
How ungrateful I have proved thee, 

Let my mournful exile show. 

Power and splendour could not charm me, 

I no joy in wealth could see ; 
Nor could threats nor fears alarm me, 

Save the fear of losing thee ! 

When the storms of fortune pressed thee, 

I have wept to see thee weep ; 
When relentless cares disturbed thee, 

I have lulled those cares to sleep. 

When with thee, what ills could harm me ! 

Thou could'st every pang assuage ; 
But when absent, what could charm me ! 

Every moment seemed an age. 

Fare thee well ! ungrateful rover ! 

Welcome GallicCs hostile shore : 
Now the breezes waft me over, 

Now we meet to part no more. 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH 

Was the daughter of Mr. Turner of Surrey, and horn 1749. She lost 
her mother early, which misfortune was but poorly supplied by an ex- 
pensive, though careless education. She was extremely precocious, 
displaying from childhood the talents which made her afterwards one 
of the more graceful ornaments of English literature towards the close 
of the last century. On her father's proposing to marry again, she was 
induced by her friends to accept the hand of Mr. Smith, a young West 
India merchant of flattering fortunes, which she did at the age of 
15, her bridegroom being only 21. Partly through extravagance and 
commercial reverses, Mr. Smith's affairs became greatly embarrassed, 
and he was not only reduced to poverty, but so pursued by vexatious 
law claims, that he was forced to reside abroad, after suffering im- 
prisonment, the wife sharing with affectionate devotion her husband's 
confinement and exile. Her self-sacrificing fidelity was not appreciated 
or returned, and in 1777 she was compelled to separate from Mr. Smith 
and devote herself to the support of her children, as she had for a long 
time supported him and them by her literary productions. She died in 
1806. She wrote with great facility, but at the same time with ele- 
gance, as her numerous productions, both in prose and poetry, show. 
Her principal prose writings were novels : Romance of Real Life ; 
Emmeline, which she completed in eight months and published 1786; 
the next year Ethelinde, and in 1791, Celestina ; this was followed by 
Desmond, in which she so much favoured the principles of the French 
revolution as to lose much public credit, to regain which she portrayed 
substantial English life in her Old Manor House. She received the 
praises of Cowper and Hayley, both of whom knew her, and, more 
recently, of Sir Walter Scott, who has said of her : " While we allow 
high praise to the sweet and sad effusions of her muse, we cannot admit 
that by them alone she could ever have risen to the height of eminence 
which we are disposed to claim for her as authoress of her prose narra- 
tives." 

Her poetical compositions are distinguished by an easy grace. A sweet 
melancholy, never morbid though settled, but chastened by a hopeful 

(88) 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 89 

piety, sheds a touching charm over her verses. She had a keen per- 
ception of natural beauty, and her descriptions of rural scenery or cul- 
tivated gardens are ever true and full of sentiment. Some of her son- 
nets are among the best of the second class in our language, and a 
volume of them, we are told, "passed through eleven editions, besides 
being translated into French and Italian." 

We have given a longer sketch of this interesting lady than of some 
others, because her writings, though marked with elegance, judgment, 
and natural beauty, have fallen into such undeserved neglect, that they 
are rarely found except in libraries of collectors. The subjoined ex- 
tracts will justify our criticisms. 

SONNETS. 
TO THE MOON. 

Queen of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam, 

Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, 
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, 

Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. 
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light 

Sheds a soft calnrupon my troubled breast ; 
And oft I think, fair planet of the night ! 

That in thy orb the wretched may have rest ; 
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, 

Released by death, to thy benignant sphere ; 
And the sad children of despair and woe 

Forget, in thee, their cup of sorrow here. 
O ! that 1 soon may reach thy world serene, 
Poor wearied pilgrim — in this toiling scene ! 

THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet poet of the woods — a long adieu ! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the earlv year! 
Ah ! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 

And pour thy music on the ' night's dull ear.' 
Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 



90 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, 
And still protect the song she loves so well. 

With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest, 

And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide 
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best : 

For still thy voice shall soft affections move, 

And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! 

THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 

Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew, 
Anemonies, that spangled every grove, 

The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue. 
No more shall violets linger in the dell, 

Or purple orchis variegate the plain. 
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, 

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. — 
Ah ! poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, 

Are the fond visions of thy early day, 
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care 

Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! 
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; 
Ah ! why has happiness — no second Spring ? 

SHOULD THE LONE WANDERER. 

Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, 

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, 
And though his path through thorns and roughness lay, 

Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers ; 
Weaving gay wreaths, beneath some sheltering tree, 

The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose ; 
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! 

So charmed my way with Friendship and the Muse. 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 91 

But darker now grows life's unhappy day, 
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come : 

Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, 
And weary hope reclines upon the tomb ; 

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 

Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. 

TO NIGHT. 

I love thee, mournful sober-suited night, 

When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, 

And veiled in clouds, with pale uncertain light 
Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. 

In deep depression sunk, th' enfeebled mind 
Will to the deaf, cold elements complain, 
And tell th' embosomed grief, however vain, 

To sullen surges and the viewless wind ; 

Though no repose on thy dark breast I find, 
I still enjoy thee, cheerless as thou art; 
For in thy quiet gloom th' exhausted heart 

Is calm, though wretched ; hopeless, yet resigned ; 

While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, 

May reach — though lost on earth — the ear of Heaven. 

TO TRANQUILLITY. 

In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit, 

How seldom art thou found — Tranquillity ! 

Unless 't is when with mild and downcast eye 
By the low cradles thou delight'st to sit 
Of sleeping infants, watching the soft breath, 

And bidding the sweet slumberers easy lie, 
Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death, 

Where the poor languid sufferer hopes to die. 
O beauteous sister of the halcyon peace ! 

I sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene 



92 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Where care and anguish shall their power resign; 

Where hope alike and vain regret shall cease; 

And Memory, lost in happiness serene, 
Repeat no more — that misery has been mine ! 



WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD. 

Pressed by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides, 
While the loud equinox its power combines, 
The sea no more its swelling surge confines, 

But o'er the shrinking land sublimely rides. 

The wild blast, rising from the western cave, 
Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed ; 
Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead, 

And breaks the silent Sabbath of the grave ! 

With shells and sea-weed mingled, on the shore, 
Lo ! their bones whiten in the frequent wave ; 
But vain to them the winds and waters rave ; 

They hear the warring elements no more : 

While I am doomed, by life's long storm opprest, 

To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest. 

ENGLISH SCENE RY. 

(from "beachy head.") 

Haunts of my youth ! 
Scenes of fond day-dreams, 1 behold ye yet ! 
Where 't was so pleasant by thy northern slopes, 
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 
By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore 
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb, 
There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun : 
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, 
To look beneath upon the hollow way, 
While heavily upward moved the labouring wain, 
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 93 

To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone 
The grating wheel. 

Advancing higher still 
The prospect widens, and the village church 
But little o'er the lowly roofs around 
Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane; 
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed 
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring; 
When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom 
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 
Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit, 
Console them, for the vineyards of the south 
Surpass not these. 

Where woods of ash and beech, 
And partial copses fringe the green hill foot, 
The upland shepherd rears his modest home; 
There wanders by a little nameless stream 
That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear, 
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, 
But still refreshing in its shallow course 
The cottage garden ; most for use designed, 
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
Mantles the little casement ; yet the brier 
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, 
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue ; 
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 
Almost uncultured ; some with dark green leaves 
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white ; 
Others like velvet robes of regal state 
Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss 
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear 
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. 
With fond regret I recollect e'en now 



9i MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

In spring and summer, what delight I felt 

Among these cottage gardens, and how much 

Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 

By village housewife or her ruddy maid, 

Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleased. 

An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, 

I loved her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, 

And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, 

And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes, 

Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine. 



THE HOT-HOUSE ROSE. 

An early rose borne from her genial bower, 
Met the fond homage of admiring eyes, 
And while young Zephyr fanned the lovely flower, 
Nature and Art contended for the prize. 

Exulting Nature cried, " I made thee fair, 
'T was I that nursed thy tender buds in dew ; 
I gave thee fragrance to perfume the air, 
And stole from beauty's cheek her blushing hue." 

" Cease, goddess, cease," indignant Art replied, 
" And ere you triumph, know that, but for me, 

This beauteous object of our mutual pride 

Had been no other than a vulgar tree. 

" I snatched her from her tardy mother's arms, 
Where sun-beams scorch and piercing tempests blow ; 
On my warm bosom nursed her infant charms, 
Pruned the wild shoot, and trained the straggling bough. 

" I watched her tender buds, and from her shade 
Drew each intruding weed with anxious care, 
Nor let the curling blight her leaves invade, 
Nor worm nor noxious insect harbour there. 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

" At length the beauty's loveliest bloom appears, 
And Art from Fame shall win the promis'd boon, 
While wayward April, smiling through her tears, 
Decks her fair tresses with the wreaths of June. 

" Then, jealous Nature, yield the palm to me, 
To me thy pride its early triumph owes ; 
Though thy rude workmanship produced the tree, 

'Twas Education formed the perfect Rose." 

ODE TO THE MISSEL THRUSH. 

The winter solstice scarce is past, 
Loud is the wind, and hoarsely sound 

The mill-streams in the swelling blast, 
And cold and humid is the ground : 

When to the ivy that embowers 
Some pollard tree, or shelt'ring rock, 
The troop of timid warblers flock, 

And shudd'ring wait for milder hours. 

While thou ! the leader of their band, 
Fearless salut'st the opening year; 

Nor stay'st, till blow the breezes bland, 
That bid the tender leaves appear ! 

But on some tow'ring elm or pine, 
Waving elate thy dauntless wing, 
Thou joy'st thy love-notes wild to sing, 

Impatient of St. Valentine ! 

Oh, herald of the spring! while yet 
No harebell scents the woodland lane, 

Nor starwort fair, nox violet, 

Braves the bleak gust and driving rain : 

'Tis thine, as through the copses rude, 
Some pensive wanderer sighs along, 
To soothe him with thy cheerful song, 

And tell of Hope and Fortitude ! 



% 



96 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

For thee, then, may the hawthorn Imsh, 
The elder, and the spindle tree, 

With all their various berries blush, 
And the blue sloe abound for thee ! 

For thee the coral holly grow, 
Its armed and glossy leaves among, 
And many a branched oak be hung 

With thy pellucid missteltoe. 

Still may thy nest, with lichen lined, 
Be hidden from the invading jay : 

Nor truant boy its covert find, 
To bear thy callow young away : 

So thou, precursor still of good, 
O herald of approaching spring, 
Shalt to the pensive wand'rer sing 

Thy song of Hope and Fortitude ! 

THE NAUTILUS. 

Where southern suns and winds prevail, 
And undulate the summer seas, 

The Nautilus expands his sail, 

And scuds before the fresh'ning breeze. 

Oft is a little squadron seen 

Of mimic ships, all rigged complete ; 

Fancy might think the fairy queen 
Was sailing with her elfin fleet. 

With how much beauty is designed, 
Each channel'd bark of purest white ! 

With orient pearl each cabin lined, 
Varying with every change of light. 

While with his little slender oars, 
His silken sail, and tapering mast, 



MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 97 

The dauntless mariner explores 
The dangers of the watery waste : 

Prepared, should tempests rend the sky, 

From harm his fragile bark to keep, 
He furls his sail, his oars lays by, 

And seeks his safety in the deep : 

Then safe in ocean's shelly bed, 

He hears the storm above him roar ; 
'Mid groves of coral glowing red, 

Or rocks o'erhung with madrepore. 

So let us catch life's favouring gale : 

But if fate's adverse winds be rude, 
Take calmly in th' adventurous sail, 

And find repose in solitude. 

THE CRICKET. 

Little inmate, full of mirth, 
Chirping on my humble hearth ; 
Wheresoe'er be thine abode, 
Always harbinger of good, 
Pay me for thy warm retreat 
With a song most soft and sweet; 
In return thou shalt receive 
Such a song as I can give. 

Though in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if akin to thee, 
Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are; 
Their's is but a summer-song, 
Thine endures the whiter long, 
Unimpaired, and shrill and clear, 
Melody throughout the year. 

G 



98 ANNA SEWARD, 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a period to thy lay, 
Then, insect! let thy simple song 
Cheer the winter evening long; 
While, secure from every storm, 
In my cottage stout and warm, 
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be, 
And I delight to shelter thee. 



ANNA SEWARD, 

The daughter of the Rev. Thomas Seward, of Ergand, Derbyshire, 
born in 1747. Her first appearance as a poetess was in a collection of 
poems, published by Lady Miller, of Bath-Easton, and made up of con- 
tributions of her own, and friends who met at her house. She afterwards 
printed Elegiac Poems on the death of Major Andre, Captain Cook, 
&c. ; which, though in a tumid and laboured style, had considerable 
popularity, and won the favour of Dr. Darwin, who complimented her 
as "the inventress of epic elegy." In 1782, she published her 
"Louisa," a poetical romance. Having had some literary flirtations 
with Walter Scott, she left him at her death (in 1809) three volumes 
of her poems for publication ; but he did nol hesitate to condemn them as 
utterly unworthy of regard. She wrote a life of Dr. Darwin, in which 
she claims the first fifty lines of his " Botanic Gardens" as her own. 
She was very much overpraised in the beginning of her career, receiving 
the flattering title of " The Swan of Lichfield." We give the following 
as the best specimen of her talents. 

THE ANNIVERSARY. 

Ah, lovely Lichfield ! that so long hast shone 
In blended charms peculiarly thine own; 
Stately, yet rural ; through thy choral day, 
Though shady, cheerful, and though quiet, gay ; 
How interesting, how loved, from year to year, 
How more than beauteous did thy scenes appear! 



ANNA SEWARD. 99 

Still as the mild Spring chased the wintry gloom, 
Devolved her leaves, aud waked her rich perfume, 
Thou, with thy fields and groves around thee spread, 
Lift'st, in unlessened grace, thy spiry head ; 
But many a loved inhabitant of thine 
Sleeps where no vernal sun will ever shine. 

Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours, 
That saw Honora's * eyes adorn these bowers ? 
These darling bowers, that much she loved to hail, 
The spires she called ' the Ladies of the Vale !' 

Fairest and best! — Oh! can I e'er forget 
To thy dear kindness my eternal debt ? 
Life's opening paths how tenderly it smoothed, 
The joys it heightened, and the pains it soothed ? 
No, no ! my heart its sacred memory bears, 
Bright 'mid the shadows of o'erwhelming years ; 
When mists of deprivation round me roll, 
'Tis the soft sunbeam of my clouded soul. 

Ah, dear Honora! that remembered day, 
First on these eyes when shone thy early ray ! 
Scarce o'er my head twice seven gay springs had gone, 
Scarce five o'er thy unconscious childhood flown, 
When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame 
To our glad walls a happy inmate came. 
O summer morning of unrivalled light! 
Fate wrapt thy rising in prophetic white ! 
June, the bright month, when nature joys to wear 
The livery of the gay, consummate year, 
Gave that envermiled dayspring all her powers, 
Gemmed the light leaves, and glowed upon the flowers ; 
Bade her plumed nations hail the rosy ray 
With warbled orisons from every spray. 



* Honora Sneyd, the object of Major Andre's attachment, afterwards 
Mrs. Edgeworth, and mother of the distinguished novelist, Maria Edge- 
worth. 



100 ANNA SEWARD. 

Purpureal Tempe, not to thee belong 

More poignant fragrance or more jocund song. 

Thrice happy day ! thy clear auspicious light 
Gave ' future years a tincture of thy white ;' 
Well may her strains thy votive hymn decree, 
Whose sweetest pleasures found their source in thee; 
The purest, best that memory explores, 
Safe in the past's inviolable stores. 
The ardent progress of thy shining hours 
Beheld me rove through Lichfield's verdant bowers, 
Thoughtless and gay, and volatile and vain, 
Circled by nymphs and youths, a frolic train ; 
Though conscious that a little orphan child 
Had to my parents' guidance, kind and mild, 
Recent been summoned, when disease and death 
Shed dark stagnation o'er her mother's breath. 
While eight sweet infants' wailful cries deplore 
What not the tears of innocence restore ; 
And while the husband mourned his widowed doom, 
And hung despondent o'er the closing tomb, 
To us this loveliest scion he consigned 
Its beauty blossoming, its opening mind. 
His heartfelt loss had drawn my April tears, 
But childish, womanish, ambiguous years 
Find all their griefs as vanishing as keen ; 
Youth's rising sun soon gilds the showery scene. 

On the expected trust no thought I bent, 
Unknown the day, unheeded the event. 
One sister dear, from spleen, from falsehood free, 
Rose to the verge of womanhood with me ; 
Gloomed by no envy, by no discord jarred, 
Our pleasures blended, and our studies shared; 
And when with day and waking thoughts they closed, 
On the same couch our agile limbs reposed. 

Amply in friendship by her virtues blest, 
I gave to youthful gaiety the rest; 



ANNA SEWARD. 101 

Considering not how near the period drew, 

When that transplanted branch should meet our view, 

Whose intellectual fruits were doomed to rise, 

Food of the future's heart-expanding joys ; 

Born to console me when, by Fate severe, 

The much-beloved* should press a timeless bier, 

My friend, my sister, from my arms be torn, 

Sickening and sinking on her bridal morn ; 

While Hymen, speeding from this mournful dome, 

Should drop his darkened torch upon her tomb. 

'Twas eve ; the sun in setting glory drest, 
Spread his gold skirts along the crimson west ; 
A Sunday's eve ! Honora, bringing thee, 
Friendship's soft Sabbath long it rose to me, 
When on the wing of circling seasons borne, 
Annual I hailed its consecrated morn. 

In the kind interchange of mutual thought, 
Our home myself, and gentle sister sought ; 
Our pleasant home,"]* round which the ascending gale 
Breathes all the freshness of the sloping vale ; 
On her green verge the spacious walls arise, 
View her fair fields, and catch her balmy sighs ; 
See her near hills the bounded prospect close, 
And her blue lake in glassy breadth repose. 

With arms entwined, and smiling as we talked, 
To the maternal room we careless walked, 
Where sat its honoured mistress, and with smile 
Of love indulgent, from a floral pile 
The gayest glory of the summer bower 
Culled for the new-arrived — the human flower, 
A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood 
Close to her knees, and charmed us as we viewed. 

* Miss Sarah Seward, who died in her nineteenth year, and on the eve 
of marriage 

j" The bishop's palace at Lichfield. 
9* 



102 MRS. TIG HE. 

O ! hast thou marked the summer's buckled rose, 
When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows ? 
So bloomed the beauty of that fairy form, 
So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm, 
Played round the timid curve of that white neck, 
And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek. 
O ! hast thou seen the star of eve on high, 
Through the soft dusk of summer's balmy sky 
Shed its green light,* and in the glassy stream 
Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam ? 
So looked on us with tender, bashful gaze, 
The destined charmer of our youthful days ; 
Whose soul its native elevation joined 
To the gay wildness of the infant mind ; 
Esteem and sacred confidence impressed, 
While our fond arms the beauteous child caressed. 



MRS. TIGHE 

Was the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Blackford, county of Wicklow, 
Ireland, born in 1773, and died in 1810. Her history is little known, 
no authentic biography of her having been published ; but the inference 
from her writings is that her life was one of affliction, she being the 
victim of disease. Her principal work is an extremely elegant poem, 
" Psyche," in six cantos of Spenserian measure. It is a beautiful alle- 
gory, founded on the fable of Apuleius, describing the history of passion- 
ate Love and the Soul ; though it is but justice to say, that much of the 
allegory is her own, and that she has taken nothing amounting to 
plagiarism from the modern imitations of the Latin philosopher. Her 
imagination is warm, and her descriptions often voluptuous, though al- 
ways refined. Perhaps she has been somewhat diffuse ; but, taking her 

*The lustre of the brightest of the stars (says Miss Seward, in a note 
on her ninety-third sonnet) always appeared to me of a green hue; and 
they are so described by Ossian 



MRS. TIGHE. 103 

altogether she is not equalled in classical elegance by any English 
female, and not excelled (in that particular) by any male English poet. 
She has the rare quality for a poetess of not sparing the pumice-stone, 
her verses being sedulously polished to the highest degree. She shows 
also her great taste in omitting obsolete words, the affectation of which 
so frequently disfigures imitations of the great master of English alle- 
gory. Her minor pieces are far inferior to her main work, though 
graceful, but pervaded by a painful, often religionless, despondency. 
It is of Mrs. Tighe that Moore writes in his touching song : 
" I saw thy form in youthful prime." 

FIRST VISIT OF LOVE TO PYSCHE. 

Wrapt in a cloud unseen by mortal eye, 
He sought the chamber of the royal maid ; 
There, lulled by careless soft security, 
Of the impending mischief nought afraid, 
Upon her purple couch was Psyche laid, 
Her radiant eyes a downy slumber sealed; 
In light transparent veil alone arrayed, 
Her bosom's opening charms were half revealed, 
And scarce the lucid folds her polished limbs concealed. 

A placid smile plays o'er each roseate lip, 
Sweet severed lips ! while thus your pearls disclose, 
That slumbering thus unconscious she may sip 
The cruel presage of her future woes ? 
Lightly, as fall the dews upon the rose, 
Upon the coral gates of that sweet cell 
The fatal drops he pours ; nor yet he knows, 
Nor, though a God, can he presaging tell 
How he himself shall mourn the ills of that sad spell ! 

Nor yet content, he from his quiver drew, 
Sharpened with skill divine, a shining dart : 
No need had he for bow, since thus too true 
His hand might wound her all-exposed heart; 
Yet her fair side he touched with gentlest art, 



104 MRS. TIGHE. 

And half relenting on her beauties gazed ; 
Just then awaking with a sudden start 
Her opening eye in humid lustre blazed, 
Unseen he still remained, enchanted and amazed. 

The dart which in his hand now trembling stood, 
As o'er the couch he bent with ravished eye, 
Drew with its daring point celestial blood 
From his smooth neck's unblemished ivory : 
Heedless of this, but with a pitying sigh 
The evil done now anxious to repair, 
He shed in haste the balmy drops of joy 
O'er all the silky ringlets of her hair; 
Then stretched his plumes divine, and breathed celestial air 

Unhappy Psyche! soon the latent wound 
The fading roses of her cheek confess, 
Her eyes' bright beams, in swimming sorrows drowned, 
Sparkle no more with life and happiness, 
Her parent's fond exulting heart to bless ; 
She shuns adoring crowds, and seeks to hide 
The pining sorrows which her soul oppress, 
Till to her mother's tears no more denied, 
The secret grief she owns, for which she lingering sighed. 

A dream of mingled terror and delight 
Still heavy hangs upon her troubled soul, 
An angry form still swims before her sight, 
And still the vengeful thunders seem to roll; 
Still crushed to earth she feels the stern control 
Of Venus unrelenting, unappeased : 
The dream returns, she feels the fancied dole ; 
Once more the furies on her heart have seized, 
But still she views the youth who all her sufferings eased. 



MRS. TIGHE. 105 

Of wonderous beauty did the vision seem, 
And in the freshest prime of youthful years ; 
Such at the close of her distressful dream 
A graceful champion to her eyes appears ; 
Her loved deliverer from her foes and fears 
She seems in grateful transport still to press ; 
Still his soft voice sounds in her ravished ears ; 
Dissolved in fondest tears of tenderness, 
His form she oft invokes her waking eyes to bless. 

Nor was it quite a dream, for as she woke, 
Ere heavenly mists concealed him from her eye, 
One sudden transitory view she took 
Of Love's most radiant bright divinity ; 
From the fair image never can she fly, 
As still consumed with vain desire she pines ; 
While her fond parents heave the anxious sigh, 
And to avert her fate seek holy shrines 
The threatened ills to learn by auguries and signs. 

PALACE OF LOVE. 

Increasing wonder filled her ravished soul, 
For now the pompous portals opened wide, 
There, pausing oft, with timid foot she stole 
Through halls high domed, enriched with sculptured pride, 
While gay saloons appeared on either side 
In splendid vista opening to her sight ; 
And all with precious gems so beautified, 
And furnished with such exquisite delight, 
That scarce the beams of heaven emit such lustre bright. 

The amethyst was there of violet hue, 
And there the topaz shed its golden ray, 
The chrysoberyl, and the sapphire blue 
As the clear azure of a sunny day, 



106 MRS. TIG HE. 

Or the mild eyes where amorous glances play ; 
The snow-white jasper, and the opal's flame, 
The blushing ruby, and the agate gray, 
And there the gem which bears his luckless name 
Whose death by Phoebus mourned ensured him deathless fame. 

There the green emerald, there cornelians glow, 
And rich carbuncles pour eternal light, 
With all that India and Peru can show, 
Or Labrador can give so flaming- bright 
To the charmed mariner's half dazzled sight : 
The coral paved baths with diamonds blaze : 
And all that can the female heart delight 
Of fair attire, the last recess displays, 
And all that Luxury can ask, her eye surveys. 

Now through the hall melodious music stole, 
And self-prepared the splendid banquet stands, 
Self-poured the nectar sparkles in the bowl, 
The lute and viol touched by unseen hands 
Aid the soft voices of the choral bands ; 
O'er the full board a brighter lustre beams 
Than Persia's monarch at his feast commands : 
For sweet refreshment all inviting seems 
To taste celestial food, and pure ambrosial streams. 

But when meek Eve hung out her dewy star, 
And gently veiled with gradual hand the sky, 
Lo ! the bright folding doors retiring far, 
Display to Psyche's captivated eye 
All that voluptuous ease could e'er supply 
To soothe the spirits in serene repose : 
Beneath the velvet's purple canopy 
Divinely formed a downy couch arose, 
While alabaster lamps a milky light disclose. 



MRS. TIG HE. 107 

Once more she hears the hymeneal strain ; 
Far other voices now attune the lay ; 
The swelling sounds approach, awhile remain. 
And then retiring faint dissolved away : 
The expiring lamps emit a feebler ray, 
And soon in fragrant death extinguished lie : 
Then virgin terrors Psyche's soul dismay, 
When through the obscuring gloom she nought can spy, 
But softly rustling sounds declare some Being nigh. 

Oh, you for whom I write ! whose hearts can melt 
At the soft thrilling voice whose power you prove, 
You know what charm, unutterably felt, 
Attends the unexpected voice of Love : 
Above the lyre, the lute's soft notes above, 
With sweet enchantment to the soul it steals 
And bears it to Elysium's happy grove ; 
You best can tell the rapture Psyche feels 
When Love's ambrosial lip the vows of Hymen seals. 

psyche's discovery of love. 
And now, with softest whispers of delight, 
Love welcomes Psyche still more fondly dear ; 
Not unobserved, though hid in deepest night, 
The silent anguish of her secret fear. 
He thinks that tenderness excites the tear 
By the late image of her parent's grief, 
And half offended seeks in vain to cheer, 
Yet, while he speaks, her sorrows feel relief, 
Too soon more keen to sting from this suspension brief 

Allowed to settle on celestial eyes 
Soft Sleep exulting now exerts his sway, 
From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies 
To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray 
The powers of heaven submissively obey. 



108 MRS. TIGHE. 

Trembling and breathless then she softly rose 
And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, 
With hand too rashly daring to disclose 
The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. 

Twice, as with agitated step she went, 
The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam, 
As though it warned her from her rash intent : 
And twice she paused, and on its trembling beam 
Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem 
With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh ; 
As one just waking from a troublous dream, 
With palpitating heart and straining eye, 
Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. 

Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay 
To paint the wonders which that lamp could show ? 
And canst thou hope in living words to say 
The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? 
Ah ! well I ween, that if with pencil true 
That splendid vision could be well exprest, 
The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew 
Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, 
When Love's all potent charms divinely stood confest. 

All imperceptible to human touch, 
His wings display celestial essence light, 
The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, 
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright 
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; 
A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years ; 
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, 
Each golden curl resplendently appears, 
Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears. 

Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright 
Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, 



MRS. TIG HE. 109 

That front than polished ivory more white ! 
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
Than roses scattered o'er a bed of snow : 
While on his lips, distilled in balmy dews, 
(Those lips divine that even in silence know 
The heart to touch) persuasion to infuse 
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
Disclosed not yet his eyes' resistless sway, 
But from their silky veil there seemed to peep 
Some brilliant glances with a softened ray, 
Which o'er his features exquisitely play, 
And all his polished limbs suffuse with light. 
Thus through some narrow space the azure day 
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, 
Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. 

His fatal arrows and celestial bow 
Beside the couch were negligently thrown, 
Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show 
His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone 
As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; 
The gloom which glowed o'er all of soft desire, 
Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherished son ; 
And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire, 
And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. 

Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost 

Long Psyche stood with fixed adoring eye ; 

Her limbs immoveable, her senses tost 

Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy, 

She hangs enamoured o'er the Deity. 

Till from her trembling hand extinguished falls 

The fatal lamp — He starts — and suddenly 

Tremendous thunders echo through the halls, 

While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. 
10 



110 MRS. TIGHK. 

JEALOUSY. 

Her spirits die, she breathes polluted air, 
And vaporous visions swim before her sight : 
His magic skill the sorcerer bids her share, 
And lo ! as in a glass, she sees her knight 
In bovver remembered well, the bower of loose Delight. 

But oh ! what words her feelings can impart ! 
Feelings to hateful envy near allied ! 
While on her knight her anxious glances dart : 
His plumed helmet, lo ! he lays aside ; 
His face with torturing agony she spied, 
Yet cannot from the sight her eyes remove ; 
No mortal knight she sees had aid supplied, 
No mortal knight in her defence had strove ; 
'T was Love ! 't was Love himself, her own adored Love. 

Poured in soft dalliance at a lady's feet, 
In fondest rapture he appeared to lie, 
While her fair neck with inclination sweet 
Bent o'er his graceful form her melting eye, 
Which his looked up to meet in ecstasy. 
Their words she heard not ; words had ne'er exprest, 
What well her sickening fancy could supply, 
All that their silent eloquence confest, 
As breathed the sigh of fire from each impassioned breast. 

While thus she gazed, her quivering lips turn pale ; 
Contending passions rage within her breast, 
Nor ever had she known such bitter bale, 
Or felt by such fierce agony opprest. 
Oft had her gentle heart been sore distrest, 
But meekness ever has a lenient power 
From anguish half his keenest darts to wrest; 
Meekness for her had softened sorrow's hour, 
Those furious fiends subdued which boisterous souls devour. 



MRS. TIGHE . Ill 

For there are hearts that, like some sheltered lake, 
Ne'er swell with rage, nor foam with violence ; 
Though its sweet placid calm the tempests shake, 
Yet will it ne'er with furious impotence 
Dash its rude waves against the rocky fence, 
Which nature placed the limits of its reign : 
Thrice blest ! who feel the peace which flows from hence, 
Whom meek-eyed gentleness can thus restrain ; 
Whate'er the storms of fate, with her let none complain ! 

THE POWER OF LOVE TO BLESS. 

When pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth, 
And the gay hours on downy wing advance, 
Oh ! then 'tis sweet to hear the lip of truth 
Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance 
The raptured soul by intermingling glance 
Of mutual bliss ; sweet amid roseate bowers, 
Led by the hand of Love, to weave the dance, 
Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers, 
Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm unclouded hours. 

Yet they, who light of heart in may-day pride 
Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous song, 
(Though he their softest pleasures may provide, 
Even then when pleasures in full concert throng) 
They cannot know with what enchantment strong 
He steals upon the tender suffering soul, 
What gently soothing charms to him belong, 
How melting sorrow owns his soft control, 
Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll. 

When vexed by cares and harassed by distress, 
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread, 
Let Love, consoling Love ! still sweetly bless, 
And his assuasive balm benignly shed : 



112 MRS. TIGHE. 

His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread 
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose ; 
To Love the tender heart hath ever fled, 
As on its mother's breast the infant throws 
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes. 

Oh ! fondly cherish then the lovely plant, 
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease ; 
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant, 
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze, 
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize, 
When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain, 
This still with undeciduous charms shall please, 
Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain, 
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain. 

Through the hard season Love with plaintive note 
Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing, 
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat, 
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing, 
With cheerful promise of returning spring 
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove. 
Guard thy best treasure from the venomed sting 
Of baneful peevishness ; oh ! never prove 
How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love ! 

Repentance may the storms of passion cbase, 
And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast, 
May hush his just complaints in soft embrace, 
And smiling wipe his tearful eye at last : 
Yet when the wind's rude violence is past, 
Look what a wreck the scattered fields display ! 
See on the ground the withering blossoms cast ! 
And hear sad Philomel with piteous lay 
Deplore the tempest's rage that swept her young away. 



MRS. TIGHE. 113 

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed, 
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue, 
May wake the impassioned lover's tender dread, 
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong ; 
But ah, beware ! the gentle power too long 
Will not endure the frown of angry strife ; 
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng 
Who blast the joys of calm domestic life, 
And flies when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife. 

Oh ! he will tell you that these quarrels bring 
The ruin, not renewal of his flame : 
If oft repeated, lo ! on rapid wing 
He flies to hide his fair but tender frame ; 
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame 
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain ! 
Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim, 
Asserts for ever her repulsive reign, 
Close followed by disgust and all her chilling train. 

Indifference, dreaded power ! what art shall save 
The good so cherished from thy grasping hand? 
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave 
Thy treacherous arts prepare ? or how withstand 
The insidious foe, who with her leaden band 
Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity ? 
Ah, never more to wake ! or e'er expand 
His golden pinions to the breezy sky, 
Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye. 

Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang 
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway ? 
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang 
Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey ; 
Sees rapture's brilliant colours fade away, 

10* H 



114 MRS. TIGHE. 

And all the glow of beaming sympathy; 
Anxious to watch the cold averted ray 
That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye 
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy. 

Too faithful heart! thou never canst retrieve 
Thy withered hopes : conceal the cruel pain ! 
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve ; 
But never to the unfeeling ear complain : 
From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain! 
Submit at once — the bitter task resign, 
Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain ; 
Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine, 
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine ! 

DELAY OF LOVE COMPENSATED. 

Two tapers thus, with pure converging rays, 
In momentary flash their beams unite, 
Shedding but one inseparable blaze 
Of blended radiance and effulgence bright, 
Self-lost in mutual intermingling light ; 
Thus, in her lover's circling arms embraced, 
The fainting Psyche's soul, by sudden flight, 
With his its subtlest essence interlaced ; 
Oh! bliss too vast for thought! by words how poorly traced! 

Fond youth ! whom Fate hath summoned to depart, 
And quit the object of thy tenderest love, 
How oft in absence shall thy pensive heart 
Count the sad hours which must in exile move, 
And still their irksome weariness reprove ; 
Distance with cruel weight but loads thy chains 
With every step which bids thee farther rove, 
While thy reverted eye, with fruitless pain, 
Shall seek the trodden path its treasure to regain. 



MRS. TI GH E. 115 

For thee what rapturous moments are prepared ! 
For thee shall dawn the long expected day! 
And he who ne'er thy tender woes hath shared, 
Hath never known the transport they shall pay, 
To wash the memory of those woes away : 
The bitter tears of absence thou must shed, 
To know the bliss which tears of joy convey, 
When the long hours of sad regret are fled, 
And in one dear embrace thy pains compensated ! 

Even from afar beheld, how eagerly 
With rapture thou shalt hail the loved abode ! 
Perhaps already, with impatient eye, 
From the dear casement she hath marked thy road, 
And many a sigh for thy return bestowed : 
Even there she meets thy fond enamoured glance : 
Thy soul with grateful tenderness o'erflowed, 
Which firmly bore the hand of hard mischance, 
Faints in the stronger power of joy's o'erwhelming trance. 

SONNET. 

As one who late hath lost a friend adored, 
Clings with sick pleasure to the faintest trace 
Resemblance offers in another's face, 
Or sadly gazing on that form deplored, 
Would clasp the silent canvas to his breast : 
So muse I on the good I have enjoyed, 
The wretched victim of my hopes destroyed 
On images of peace I fondly rest, 
Or in the page, where weeping fancy mourns, 
I love to dwell upon each tender line, 
And think the bliss once tasted still is mine ; 
While cheated memory to the past returns, 
And, from the present leads my shivering heart 
Back to those scenes from which it wept to part. 



116 MRS. TIG HE. 

TO TIME. 

Yes, gentle Time, thy gradual, healing hand 

Hath stolen from sorrow's grasp the envenomed dart ; 
Submitting to thy skill, my passive heart 

Feels that no grief can thy soft power withstand ; 
And though my aching breast still heaves the sigh, 
Though oft the tear swells silent in mine eye ; 

Yet the keen pang, the agony is gone; 

Sorrow and I shall part •, and these faint throes 
Are but the remnant of severer woes : 

As when the furious tempest is o'erblown, 
And when the sky has wept its violence, 

The opening heavens will oft let fall a shower, 
The poor o'ercharged boughs still drops dispense, 

And still the loaded streams in torrents pour. 

HAGAR IN THE DESERT. 

Injured, hopeless, faint, and weary, 

Sad, indignant, and forlorn, 
Through the desert wild and dreary, 

Hagar leads the child of scorn. 

Who can speak a mother's anguish, 

Painted in that tearless eye, 
Which beholds her darling languish, 

Languish unrelieved, and die. 

Lo ! the empty pitcher fails her, 

Perishing with thirst he lies, 
Death with deep despair assails her, 

Piteous as for aid he cries. 

From the dreadful image flying, 
Wild she rushes from the sight ■ 

In the agonies of dying 

Can she see her soul's delight r 



MRS. TIGHE. 117 

Now bereft of every hope, 

Cast upon the burning ground, 
Poor, abandoned soul ! look up, 

Mercy have thy sorrows found. 

Lo ! the Angel of the Lord 

Comes thy great distress to cheer; 
Listen to the gracious word, 

See divine relief is near. 

" Care of Heaven ! though man forsake thee, 
Wherefore vainly dost thou mourn? 
From thy dream of woe awake thee, 
To thy rescued child return. 

"Lift thine eyes, behold yon fountain, 
Sparkling 'mid those fruitful trees ; 
Lo ! beneath yon sheltering mountain 
Smile for thee green bowers of ease. 

" In the hour of sore affliction 

God hath seen and pitied thee ; 
Cheer thee in the sweet conviction, 
Thou henceforth his care shalt be. 

" Be no more by doubts distressed, 
Mother of a mighty race ! 
By contempt no more oppressed, 

Thou hast found a resting place." — 

Thus from peace and comfort driven, 

Thou, poor soul, all desolate, 
Hopeless lay, till pitying Heaven 

Found thee, in thy abject state, 

O'er thy empty pitcher mourning 

'Mid the desert in the world ; 
Thus, with shame and anguish burning, 

From thy cherished pleasures hurled : 



liy MRS. TIGHE. 

See thy great deliverer nigh, 

Calls thee from thy sorrow vain, 
Bids thee on his love rely, 

Bless the salutary pain. 

From thine eyes the mists dispelling, 

Lo ! the well of life he shows, 
In his presence ever dwelling, 

Bids thee find thy true repose. 

Future prospects rich in blessing 

Open to thy hopes secure ; 
Sure of endless joys possessing, 

Of an heavenly kingdom sure. 

ON RECEIVING A BRANCH OF MEZEREON "WHICH 
FLOWERED AT WOODSTOCK. 

DECEMBER, 1809. 

Odours of Spring, my sense ye charm 

With fragrance premature ; 
And, 'mid these days of dark alarm, 

Almost to hope allure. 
Methinks with purpose soft ye come 

To tell of brighter hours, 
Of May's blue skies, abundant bloom, 

Her sunny gales and showers. 

Alas ! for me shall May in vain 

The powers of life restore ; 
These eyes that weep and watch in pain 

Shall see her charms no more. 
No, no, this anguish cannot last! 

Beloved friends, adieu! 
The bitterness of death were past, 

Could I resign but you. 



TI G H E. 119 



But oh ! in every mortal pang 

That rends my soul from life, 
That soul, which seems on you to hang 

Through each convulsive strife, 
Even now with agonizing grasp 

Of terror and regret 
To all in life its love would clasp 

Clings close and closer yet. 

Yet why, immortal, vital spark ! 

Thus mortally opprest ? 
Look up, my soul, through prospects dark, 

And bid thy terrors rest ; 
Forget, forego thy earthly part, 

Thine heavenly being trust : — 
Ah, vain attempt ! my coward heart 

Still shuddering clings to dust. 

Oh ye ! who soothe the pangs of death 

With love's own patient care, 
Still, still retain this fleeting breath, 

Still pour the fervent prayer: — 
And ye whose smile must greet my eye 

No more, nor voice my ear, 
Who breathe for me the tender sigh, 

And shed the pitying tear, 

Whose kindness (though far, far removed) 

My grateful thoughts perceive, 
Pride of my life, esteemed, beloved, 

My last sad claim receive ! 
Oh ! do not quite your friend forget, 

Forget alone her faults; 
And speak of her with fond regret 

Who asks your lingering thoughts. 



MRS. THRALE, 

(AFTERWARDS MRS. PIOZZI.) 

This is the lady with whose name Dr. Johnson has made us so familiar. 
Her maiden name was Hester Lynch Salusbury. She was born at 
Bodvel, Caernavonshire, where her father, John Salusbury, resided, in 
1740. In 1763 she married Mr. Thrale, a wealthy brewer, in whose 
house Johnson, fro n being- a frequent visitor, at last became a resident. 
Three years after Mr. Thrale's death, which happened in 1781, she 
married, to the lexicographer's great displeasure, an Italian music-master, 
Piozzi. Shortly after her second marriage, she went with her husband 
to Florence, where she resided until their return to England, in 1788. 
While there, she contributed to the " Florence Miscellany," the joint 
production of a few English of both sexes, known as the Delia Cruscans, 
whom Gifford in his Baviad so sorely satirizes. She published, besides 
several other works, "Letters and Anecdotes of Johnson," 1786, a main 
object of the book being the glorification of herself with the Doctor's 
compliments during her first husband's lifetime, and, perhaps, a little 
revenge on him for having objected to her second marriage, some of the 
anecdotes exhibiting him not in the most favourable light. Piozzi died 
in 1809, but in 1819-20 his sprightly widow showed, not only that her 
physical elasticity was preserved, by dancing with great spirit at public 
balls, but that her sensibilities were yet warm, by falling in love with 
Conway, the handsome actor. Several of her love-letters to Conway 
were published in 1843, they having been found among his papers, and 
sold in New York as part of his effects after his suicide, January 1828. 
In one of these letters she tells him, that she writes "at three, four, five 
o'clock (in the morning,) with an octogenary pen; a heart twenty-six 
years old, and as H. L. P. feels it to be, all your own." From this the 
reader may infer the character of the notes. She was not without talent, 
though vain and volatile. Dr. Johnson said of her, in 1781, that "she 
was, if not the wisest woman in the world, undoubtedly one of the 
wittiest." Mrs. Piozzi died in 1821. Her first printed piece, 1766, an 
imitation of Fontaine, is subjoined as the best of her productions. 



MRS. THR ALE. 121 

THE THREE WARNINGS. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground; 
'T was therefore said by ancient sages, 

That love of life increased with years 
So much, that in our latter stages, 
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 

The greatest love of life appears. 
This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old assertions can't prevail, 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were gay, 
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, 
Death called aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room, 
And looking grave — 'You must,' says he, 
'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.' 
' With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? 
With you !' the hapless husband cried ; 
' Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard ! 
Besides, in truth, I 'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go; 
This is my wedding-day, you know.' 

What more he urged I have not heard, 
His reasons could not well be stronger; 

So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
And left to live a little longer. 

Yet calling up a serious look, 

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — • 

' Neighbour,' he said, ' farewell ! no more 

Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: 

And farther, to avoid all blame 

Of cruelty upon my name, 
11 



122 MRS. THRALE. 

To give you time for preparation, 
And fit you for your future station, 
Three several warnings you shall have, 
Before you 're summoned to the grave ; 
Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve ; 
In hopes you'll have no more to say, 
But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleased the world will leave.' 
To these conditions both consented, 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wise, how well, 
How roundly he pursued his course, 
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, 

The willing muse shall tell : 
He chaffered, then he bought and sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing old, 
Nor thought of Death as near : 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 

He passed his hours in peace. 
But while he viewed his wealth increase, 
While thus along life's dusty road, 
The beaten track content he trod, 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood, 

And all alone he sate, 
The unwelcome messenger of Fate 

Once more before him stood. 

Half-killed with anger and surprise, 
' So soon returned !' old Dodson cries. 



MRS. THRALE. 123 

' So soon d' ye call it ?' Death replies : 
'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! 

Since I was here before 
'T is six-and-thirty years at least, 

And you are now fourscore.' 

' So much the worse,' the clown rejoined ; 
' To spare the aged would be kind : 
However, see your search be legal ; 
And your authority — is 't regal? 
Else you are come on a fool's errand, 
With but a secretary's warrant.* 
Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, 
Which I have looked for nights and mornings ; 
But for that loss of time and ease, 
I can recover damages.' 

' 1 know,' ci-ies Death, ' that at the best, 
I seldom am a welcome guest; 
But do n't be captious, friend, at least ; 
I little thought you 'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable : 
Your years have run to a great length: 
I wish you joy, though of your strength !' 

' Hold,' says the farmer ' not so fast ! 
I have been lame these four years past.' 
' And no great wonder,' Death replies : 
' However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
For legs and arms would make amends.' 
' Perhaps,' says Dodson, ' so it might, 
But latterly I 've lost my sight.' 
4 This is a shocking tale 't is true ; 
But still there 's- comfort left for you : 

* An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was 
the cause of so much contention in its day. 



124 MRS. BARBAULD. 

Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news.' 

' There 's none,' cries he ; ' and if there were, 
I 'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.' 

'Nay, then,' the spectre stern rejoined, 
These are unjustifiable yearnings; 

If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 

You 've had your Three sufficient Warnings ; 
So come along no more we '11 part ;' 
He said, and touched him with his dart. 
And now Old Dodson, turning pale, 
Yields to his fate — so ends my tale. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 

Anna Letitia, daughter of Dr. John Aikin, born at Kilworth Har- 
court, in Leicestershire, 1743. She received an excellent and liberal 
education from her accomplished father, and in her thirtieth year pub- 
lished a volume of miscellaneous poems, which ran through four editions 
in a twelvemonth. In 1774, she was married to the Rev. Rochemont 
Barbauld, a French preacher, who in 1802 succeeded Dr. Price in the 
charge of the Unitarian congregation of Newington Green. In 1775, 
she issued a volume of her Hymns in Prose for children. Besides her 
poetical works, she assisted her father in that well-known series of 
tales, Evenings at Home ; edited the correspondence of Richardson, 
with a life of the novelist ; wrote critical essays on Akenside and Col- 
lins, for editions of their works; and an introductory essay, with bio- 
graphical and critical notices, to a collection she made of British novel- 
ists, besides other pieces of less note. She died in 1825. 

Mrs. Barbauld's writings, the earliest as well as those of later date, 
are, as her niece Miss Lucy Aikin says, stored with proofs of her 
various and extensive reading, her imaginative powers rather increas- 
ing than diminishing with her years. Associated witli both her husband 
and father in the education of youth, she had a warm regard for chil- 



MRS. BARBAULD 



125 



dren, and some of her prose hymns are among her most poetical pro- 
ductions. Though high poetical talent cannot be ascribed to her, her 
versification is easy and graceful, winning for her many admirers, 
among whom may be reckoned Charles James Fox. The selections we 
6ubjoin will exhibit the literary and moral traits of this amiable and 
industrious woman, in a good light. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 

I read God's awful name emblazon'd high, 
With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky; 
Nor less the mystic characters 1 see, 
Wrought in each flower, inscribed on ev'ry tree ; 
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze 
I hear the voice of God among the trees. 
With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; 
In every creature own thy forming power, 
In each event thy providence adore. 

Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control : 
Thus shall I rest, unmov'd by all alarms, 
Secure within the temple of thine anus, 
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 

That when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 
And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; 
Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. 
11* 



126 MRS. BARBAULD, 

HYMN. 

Jehovah reigns : let ev'ry nation hear, 
And at his footstool bow with holy fear ; 
Let Heaven's high arches echo with his name, 
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim ; 
Then send it down to hell's deep gloom resounding, 
Thro' all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding. 

He rules with wide and absolute command 
O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land : 
Jehovah reigns, unbounded and alone, 
And all creation hangs beneath his throne : 
He reigns alone ; let no inferior nature 
Usurp or share the throne of the Creator. 

He saw the struggling beams of infant light 
Shoot thro' the massy gloom of ancient night ; 
His spirit hushed the elemental strife, 
And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life : 
Seasons and months began the long procession, 
And measured o'er the year in bright succession. 

The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way, 

Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay ; 

And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light 

Superior o'er the dusky brow of night ; 

Ten thousand glitt'ring lamps the skies adorning, 

Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning. 

Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he dressed, 
And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast; 
Then from the hollow of his hand he pours 
The circling waters round her winding shores, 
The new-born world in their cool arms embracing, 
And with lost murmurs still her banks caressing;. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 127 

At length she rose complete in finished pride, 
All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride : 
Fresh with untarnished lustre as she stood, 
Her Maker blessed his work, and called it good, 

The morning stars, with joyful acclamation, 

Exulting sung, and hailed the new creation. 

Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, 

Tho' built by God's right hand, must pass away ; 

And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, 

The fate of empires, and the pride of kings : 
Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, 
And drop the curtain o'er all human glory. 

The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest. 

Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest : 

His golden urn shall broke and useless lie, 

Amidst the common ruins of the sky ! 
The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, 
And bathe their glitt'ring foreheads in the ocean. 

But fix'd, O God ! for ever stands thy throne ; 

Jehovah reigns, a universe alone ; 

Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame, 

Collected or diffused, is still the same. 
He dwells within his own unfathomed essence, 
And fills all space with his unbounded presence. 

But oh ! our highest notes the theme debase, 

And silence is our least injurious praise : 

Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight control, 

Revere him in the stillness of the soul ; 
With silent duty meekly bend before him, 
And deep within your inmost hearts adore nim. 



128 MRS. BARBAULD. 

HYMN FOR EASTER-SUNDAY. 

Again the Lord of life and light 
Awakes the kindling ray ; 

Unseals the eyelids of the morn, 
And pours increasing day. 

O what a night was that which wrapt 
The heathen world in gloom ! 

Oh what a sun which broke this day, 
Triumphant from the tomb ! 

This clay be grateful homage paid, 

And loud hosannas sung; 
Let gladness dwell in ev'ry heart, 

And praise on ev'ry tongue. 

Ten thousand differing lips shall join 
To hail this welcome morn ; 

Which scatters blessings from its wings 
To nations yet unborn. 

Jesus, the friend of human kind, 
With strong compassion moved, 

Descended, like a pitying God, 
To save the souls he loved. 

The powers of darkness leagued in vain 
To bind his soul in death ; 

He shook their kingdom, when he fell, 
With his expiring breath. 

Not long the toils of hell could keep 
The hope of Judah's line ; 

Corruption never could take hold 
On aught so much divine. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 129 

And now his conquering chariot wheels 

Ascend the lofty skies ; 
While broke, beneath his powerful cross, 

Death's iron sceptre lies. 

Exalted high at God's right hand, 

And Lord of all below, 
Thro' him is pard'ning love dispensed, 

And boundless blessings flow. 

And still for erring, guilty man, 

A brother's pity flows ; 
And still his bleeding heart is touched 

With memory of our woes. 

To thee, my Saviour and my King, 

Glad homage let me give ; 
And stand prepared like thee to die, 

With thee that I may live. 



Awake, my soul ! lift up thine eyes, 
See where thy foes against thee rise, 
In long array, a num'rous host; 
Awake, my soul, or thou art lost. 

Here giant Danger threat'ning stands, 
Mustering his pale terrific bands ; 
There Pleasure's silken banners spread, 
And willing souls are captive led. 

See where rebellious passions rage, 
And fierce desires and lusts engage; 
The meanest foe of all the train 
Has thousands and ten thousands slain. 



130 MRS. BARBAULD. 

Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground, 
Perils and snares beset thee round ; 
Beware of all, guard ev'ry part, 
But most the traitor in thy heart. 

Come then, my soul, now learn to wield 
The weight of thine immortal shield ; 
Put on the armour from above 
Of heavenly truth and heavenly love. 

The terror and the charm repel, 
And powers of earth, and powers of hell, 
The man of Calvary triumph'd here ; 
Why should his faithful followers fear ? 

HYMN TO CONTENT. 

O thou, the Nymph with placid eye! 
O seldom found, yet never nigh ! 

Receive my temperate vow : 
Not all the storms that shake the pole, 
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, 

And smooth unaltered brow. 

O come in simple vest arrayed, 
With all thy sober cheer displayed, 

To bless my longing sight; 
Thy mien composed, thy even pace, 
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 

And chaste subdued delight. 

No more by varying passions beat, 
O gently guide my pilgrim feet 

To find thy hermit cell ; 
Where in some pure and equal sky 
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye 

The modest virtues dwell. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 131 

Simplicity in attic vest, 

And Innocence with candid breast, 

And clear undaunted eye; 
And Hope, who points to distant years, 
Fair opening through this vale of tears 

A vista to the sky. 

There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide 
The temperate joys in even tide, 

That rarely ebb or flow ; 
And Patience there, thy sister meek, 
Presents her mild unvarying cheek 

To meet the offered blow. 

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage 
A tyrant master's wanton rage 

With settled smiles to meet ; 
Inured to toil and bitter bread, 
He bow'd his meek submitted head, 

And kissed thy sainted feet. 

But thou, O Nymph, retired and coy ' 
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 

To tell thy tender tale? 
The lowliest children of the ground, 
Moss-rose and violet blossom round, 

And lily of the vale. 

say what soft propitious hour 

1 best may choose to hail thy power, 

And court thy gentle sway ? 
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, 
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, 

And shed thy milder day : 

When Eve, her dewy star beneath, 

Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 

And ev'ry storm is laid; 



132 MRS. BARBAULD. 

If such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice 
Low whispering thro' the shade. 



TO WISDOM. 

O Wisdom! if thy soft control 
Can soothe the sickness of the soul, 
Can bid the warring passions cease, 
And breathe the calm of tender peace ; 
Wisdom ! I bless thy gentle sway, 
And ever, ever will obey. 

But if thou com'st with frown austere, 
To nurse the brood of care and fear; 
To bid our sweetest passions die, 
And leave us in their room a sigh ; 
Or if thine aspect stern have power 
To wither each poor transient flower 
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe, 
And diy the springs whence hope should flow; 
Wisdom, thine empire I disclaim, 
Thou empty boast of pompous name ! 
In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell, 
But never haunt my cheerful cell. 
Hail to pleasure's frolic train ! 
Hail to fancy's golden reign ! 
Festive mirth and laughter wild, 
Free and sportful as the child ! 
Hope with eager sparkling eyes, 
And easy faith and fond surprise ! 
Let these, in faiiy colours drest, 
For ever share my careless breast : 
Then, tho' wise I may not be, 
The wise themselves shall envy me. 



MRS. BARBAULD. J 33 



ODE TO SPRING. 

Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, 
Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring! 

Whose unshorn locks with leaves 

And swelling buds are crowned ; 

From the green islands of eternal youth 

(Crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade,) 

Turn, hither turn thy step, 

O thou, whose powerful voice 

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed 
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds, 

And through the stonny deep 

Breathe thy own tender calm. 

Thee, best beloved ! the virgin train await 
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove 

Thy blooming wilds among, 

And vales and dewy lawns, 

With untired feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets 
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow 

Of him, the favoured youth 

That prompts their whispered sigh. 

Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers 
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds, 

And silent dews that swell 

The milky ear's green stem, 

And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ; 

And call those winds, which through the whispering boughs 

With warm and pleasant breath 

Salute the blowing flowers. 
12 



134 MRS. BARBAULD. 

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, 
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ; 

And watch with patient eye 

Thy fair unfolding charms. 

O nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate sun 
With bashful forehead, through the cool moist air 

Throws his young maiden beams, 

And with chaste kisses woos 

The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil 
Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade, 

Protects thy modest blooms 

From his severer blaze. 

Sweet is thy reign, but short : the red dog-star 
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe 

Thy greens, thy flowerets all, 

Remorseless shall destroy. 

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell; 
For O ! not all that Autumn's lap contains, 

Nor Summer's ruddiest fruit, 

Can aught for thee atone, 

Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights 
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart 

Each joy and new-born hope 

With softest influence breathes. 

HYMNS IN PROSE. 
BEHOLD THE SHEPHERD! 

Behold the shepherd of the flock, he taketh care for his sheep, 
he leadeth them among clear brooks, he guideth them to fresh 
pasture : if the young lambs are weary, he carrieth them in his 
arms ; if they wander, he bringeth them back. 



MRS. BARBAULD. 135 

But who is the shepherd's Shepherd ? who taketh care for him ? 
who guideth him in the path he should go ? and, if he wander, 
who shall bring him back ? 

God is the shepherd's Shepherd. He is the shepherd over all; 
he taketh care for all ; the whole earth is his fold ; we are all his 
flock ; and every herb, and every green field is the pasture which 
he hath prepared for us. 

The mother loveth her little child ; she bringeth it up on her 
knees ; she nourisheth its body with food ; she feedeth its mind 
with knowledge ; if it is sick, she nourisheth it with tender love ; 
she watch eth over it when asleep ; she forgetteth it not for a 
moment; she teacheth it how to be good; she rejoiceth daily in 
its growth. 

But who is the parent of the mother ? who nourisheth her with 
good things, and watcheth over her with tender love, and remem- 
bereth her every moment ? Whose arms are about her to guard 
her from harm ? and if she is sick, who shall heal her ? 

God is the parent of the mother ; he is the parent of all, for he 
created all. All the men, and all the women who are alive in the 
wide world, are his children ; he loveth all, he is good to all. 

The king governeth his people ; he hath a golden crown upon 
his head, and the royal sceptre is in his hand ; he sitteth upon a 
throne, and sendeth forth his demands ; his subjects fear before 
him ; if they do well, he protecteth them from danger ; and if they 
do evil, he punisheth them. 

But who is the Sovereign of the king ? who commandeth him 
what he must do ? whose hand is reached out to protect him from 
danger ? and if he doeth evil, who shall punish him ? 

God is the sovereign of the king ; his crown is of rays of light, 
and his throne is amongst the stars. He is King of kings, and 
Lord of lords : if he biddeth us live, we live ; and if he biddeth 
us die, we die : his dominion is over all worlds, and the light of 
his countenance is upon all his works. 

God is our Shepherd, therefore we will follow him ; God is our 
Father, therefore we will love him ; God is our King, therefore 
we will obey him. 



136 



MRS. B A RB AULD 



WINTER. 



It is now Winter, dead Winter. Desolation and silence reign 
in the fields, no singing of birds is heard, no humming of insects. 
The streams murmur no longer ; they are locked up in frost. 

The trees lift up their naked boughs like withered arms into 
the bleak sky, the green sap no longer rises in their veins ; the 
flowers and the sweet-smelling shrubs are decayed to their roots. 

The sun himself looks cold and cheerless ; he gives light only 
enough to show the universal desolation. 

Nature, child of God, mourns for her children. A little while 
ago, and she rejoiced in her offspring: the rose shed its perfume 
upon the gale ; the vine gave its fruit ; her children were springing 
and blooming around her, on every lawn and every green bank. 

O Nature, beautiful Nature, beloved child of God, why dost 
thou sit mourning and desolate ? Has thy father forsaken thee, 
has he left thee to perish ? Art thou no longer the object of his 
care ? 

He has not forsaken thee, O Nature ; thou art his beloved 
child, the eternal image of his perfections ; his own beauty is 
spread over thee, the light of his countenance is shed upon 
thee. 

Thy children shall live again, they shall spring up and bloom 
around thee ; the rose shall again breathe its sweetness on the 
soft air, and from the bosom of the ground verdure shall spring 
forth. 

And dost thou not mourn, O Nature, for thy human births ; for 
thy sons and thy daughters that sleep under the sod ; and shall 
not they also revive ? Shall the rose and the myrtle bloom 
anew, and shall man perish ? Shall goodness sleep in the ground, 
and the light of wisdom be quenched in the dust, and shall tears 
be shed over them in vain ? 

They also shall live; their winter shall pass away; they shall 
bloom again. The tears of thy children shall be dried up when 
the eternal year proceeds. Oh come that eternal year ! 



MRS. BARBAULD. 137 

THE HAPPY LAND. 

The rose is sweet, but it is surrounded with thorns ; the lily 
of the valley is fragrant, but it springeth up amongst the brambles. 

The spring is pleasant, but it is soon past : the summer is bright, 
but the winter destroyeth the beauty thereof. 

The rainbow is very glorious, but it soon vanisheth away : life 
is good, but it is quickly swallowed up in death. 

There is a land where the roses are without thorns, where the 
flowers are not mixed with brambles. 

In that land, there is eternal spring, and light without any 
cloud. 

The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof; rivers of 
pleasures are there, and flowers that never fade. 

Myriads of happy spirits are there, and surround the throne of 
God with a perpetual hymn. 

The angels with their golden harps sing praises continually, 
and the cherubim fly on wings of fire. 

This country is heaven ; it is the country of those that are 
good ; and nothing that is wicked must inhabit there. 

The toad must not spit its venom amongst turtle doves : nor 
the poisonous henbane grow amongst sweet flowers. 

Neither must any one that doeth ill enter into that good land. 

This earth is pleasant ; for it is God's earth, and it is filled with 
many delightful things. 

But that country is far better : there we shall not grieve any 
more, nor be sick any more, nor do wrong any more ; there the 
cold of winter shall not wither us, nor the heats of summer 
scorch us. 



12* 



HELEN MAEIA WILLIAMS 

Was born in the north of England, 1762. Under the patronising 
care of Dr. Andrew Kippis, she began her literary career with the pub- 
lication of a metrical legend, Edwin and Elfrida, 1782; which she 
followed with an Ode to Peace, 1783; Peru, a poem, 1784; a collec- 
tion of Miscellaneous Poems in two volumes, 1780, the list of sub- 
scribers to which exceeds in number and character almost every other 
of the kind, containing nearly every name of any note at the period; a 
poem On the Slave Trade, 1788. Visiting France in 1788, and again 
in 1790, she published Letters from France, the aim of which was to 
advocate the doctrine of the Girondists; and in consequence was impri- 
soned in the Temple at Paris, by Robespierre. She also wrote Julia, 
a novel ; Narrative of Events in France during the year 1815 ; Let- 
ters on Events in France since the Restoration in 1815 ; a translation 
of HumboldCs and Bonpland^s Travels in America, 1814-21, 6 vols. 
8vo. ; with numerous smaller poems. She died at Paris in 1827. 
Miss Williams possessed a strong mind, much historical acumen, and 
great industry, though her religious sentiments were not free from 
some errors of the period. As a poetess she had little more than some 
facility and the talent inseparable from a cultivated taste. One of her 
pieces has much favour as a devotional hymn : 

TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. 

Whilst thee I seek, protecting Power! 

Be my vain wishes stilled ; 
And may this consecrated hour 

With better hopes be filled. 

Thy love the power of thought bestowed, 
To thee my thoughts would soar : 

Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed ; 
That mercy I adore. 

(138) 



HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 139 

In each event of life, how clear 

Thy ruling hand I see ! 
Each blessing to my soul most dear, 

Because conferred by thee. 

In ev'ry joy that crowns my days, 

In ev'ry pain I bear, 
My heart shall find delight in praise, 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings my favoured hour, 

Thy love my thoughts shall fill : 
Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, 

My soul shall meet thy will. 

My lifted eye without a tear 

The gathering storm shall see ; 
My steadfast heart shall know no fear; 

That heart will rest on thee. 



No riches from his scanty store 

My lover could impart; 
He gave a boon I valued more, 

He gave me all his heart. 

His soul sincere, his generous worth, 
Might well this bosom move ; 

And when I asked for bliss on earth, 
I only meant his love. 

But now from me in search of gain 
From shore to shore he flies ; 

Why wander riches to obtain, 
W hen love is all I prize ? 



140 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 

The frugal meal, the lowly cot, 

If blest my love with thee ! 
That simple fare, that lowly lot, 

Were more than wealth to me. 
# # # # # 

The night is dark, the waters deep, 

Yet soft the billows roll; 
Alas! at every breeze I weep, 

The storm is in my soul. 

A P ARAPHRA S E. 

<: The day is thine, the night also is thine ; thou hast prepared the 
light and the sun. 

" Thou hast set all the borders of the earth ; thou hast made summer 
and winter." 

My God ! all nature owns thy sway, 
Thou giv'st the night, and thou the day ! 
When all thy loved creation wakes, 
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks, 
And bathes in dew the opening flower, 
To thee we owe her fragrant hour; 
And when she pours her choral song, 
Her melodies to thee belong! 
Or when, in paler tints arrayed, 
The evening slowly spreads her shade; 
That soothing shade, that grateful gloom, 
Can more than day's enliv'ning bloom, 
Still every fond and vain desire, 
And calmer, purer thoughts inspire ; 
From earth the pensive spirit free, 
And lead the softened heart to Thee. 

In ev'ry scene thy hands have dressed, 
In ev'ry form by thee impressed, 
Upon the mountain's awful head, 
Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread; 



MISS HANNAH MORE. 141 

In ev'ry note that swells the gale, 
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale, 
The cavern's depth, or echoing grove, 
A voice is heard of praise and love. 
As o'er thy work the seasons roll, 
And soothe, with change of bliss, the soul, 
Oh never may their smiling train 
Pass o'er the human scene in vain ! 
But oft, as on the charm we gaze, 
Attune the wond'ring soul to praise ; 
And be the joys that most we prize 
The joys that from thy favour rise! 



MISS HANNAH MORE 

Is too well known by her admirable religious writings, to need an 
extended biographical notice. She was born at Stapleton, Gloucester- 
shire, in 1745, and lived to the venerable age of 87. Her father care- 
fully educated her for the profession of teaching, which she practised in 
company with her sisters several years, when she entered upon her 
literary life. Her first publication was The Search after Happiness, 
a moral drama in rhyme, prepared as an exercise for young girls at her 
sisters' school. In 1776, she printed Sir Eldred of the Bower, a ballad, 
and a little poem, in imitation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, on a rock in 
Somersetshire, from which issues a red stream, called The Bleeding Rock, 
which had been written some years before. Mr. Cadell, the publisher, 
estimated the first as the equal of The Deserted Village, and was will- 
ing to pay her the same price Goldsmith received for that exquisite 
poem. Her talents gaining for her the friendship of Dr. Johnson 
(who met her first with a verse of her Morning Hymn on his lips), Ed- 
mund Burke, and Mr. Garrick (with whom and his family she became 
very intimate,) she grew bolder in adventure and attempted tragic com- 
positions. Her tragedy, Percy, was acted in 1777, with a prologue and 
epilogue by Garrick, and had a very successful run of many nights, the 
most distinguished wits of the day complimenting her on her merited 



142 MISS HANNAH MORE. 

success, and four thousand copies of it being sold in a fortnight. A 
second tragedy, The Fatal Falsehood, though not so successful as Percy, 
was yet honourably received. Besides these she wrote another, The 
Inflexible Captive, (on the story ofRegulus,) which, she says herself, was 
an imitation of Metastasio, and not adapted to the stage. After the 
death of Garrick her sentiments became more pious, and she devoted 
herself almost entirely to religious writings, or such as might be useful 
among the poor. These she produced with such rapidity that her works iill 
six closely printed volumes, and among them are found her minor poem.-', 
The Bas Bleu, Florio, &c. When the Princess Charlotte was an inliint, 
she published a very able treatise, Hints towards forming the Character 
of a young Princess (1805), but, her biographer assures, without alto- 
gether convincing, us, not from any ambition to become the preceptress 
of the royal child. Retiring to the country, she employed herself in 
works of charity and various usefulness, until her death at Barley wood, 
1832. 

Her prose writings are of the very highest order in thought and style. 
No stronger female mind, we might say none as strong, ever directed a 
pen. Her powers of analysis and disquisition were very great, and her 
Essay on St. Paul gives her rank among the best theologians of the age, 
while her writings for the young and the poor (Cheap Repository Tracts) 
are admirably adapted to do good, and in one of them, Parley the Por- 
ter, the allegory is very happy. The same praise cannot be given to 
her works in verse. They are soundly moral and judicious, but they 
lack poetic fire, nor is it easy to discover the secret of their early pop- 
ularity. Even her successful tragedy, though it has some striking scenes, 
must have owed more to the determined applauses of her very influential 
friends than to its dramatic merit. What we give is in her best manner. 



PATRIOTISM. 

(FROM THE INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE.) 

Our country is a whole, my Publius, 

Of which we all are parts ; nor should a citizen 

Regard his interests as distinct from hers ; 

No hopes or fears should touch his patriot soul, 

But what affects her honour or her shame. 

E'en when in hostile fields he bleeds to save her, 

'T is not his blood he loses, 't is his country's ; 



MISS HANNAH MORE. 143 

He only pays her back a debt lie owes. 

To her he 's bound for birth and education : 

Her laws secure him from domestic feuds, 

And from the foreign foe her arms protect him. 

She lends him honours, dignity, and rank, 

His wrongs revenges, and his merit pays; 

And, like a tender and indulgent mother, 

Loads him with comforts, and would make his state 

As blessed as nature and the gods designed it. 

Such gifts, my son, have their alloy of pain, 

And let th' unworthy wretch, who will not bear 

His portion of the public burden, lose 

Th' advantages it yields; — let him retire 

From the dear blessings of a social life, 

And from the sacred laws which guard those blessings, 

Renounce the civilized abodes of man, 

With kindred brutes one common shelter seek 

In horrid wilds, and dens, and dreary caves, 

And with their shaggy tenants share the spoil ; 

Or if the savage hunters miss their prey, 

From scattered acorns pick a scanty meal ; — 

Far from the sweet civilities of life 

There let him live, and vaunt his wretched freedom ; 

While we, obedient to the laws that guard us, 

Guard them, and live or die, as they decree. 

A SUSPECTED WIFE. 

(FROM DOUGLAS.) 

Doug. Death to all my hopes ! 

Heart-rending word ! obedience ! what 's obedience ? 
'T is fear, 't is hate, 't is terror, 't is aversion ; 
'T is the cold debt of ostentatious duty, 
Paid with insulting caution ; paid to tell me 
How much you tremble to offend a tyrant 
So terrible as Douglas. — O, Elvvina — 



144 MISS HANNAH MORE. 

While duty portions out the debt it owes, 
With scrupulous precision and nice justice, 
Love never measures, but profusely gives, 
Gives, like a thoughtless prodigal, its all, 
And trembles then, lest it has done too little. 

El. I'm most unhappy that my cares offend 

Dovg. True tenderness is less solicitous, 
Less prudent, and more fond ; th' enamoured heart, 
Conscious it loves, and blest in being loved. 
Reposes on the object it adores, 
And trusts the passion it inspires and feels. — 
Thou hast not learnt how terrible it is 
To feed a hopeless flame. — But hear, Elwina, 
Thou most obdurate, hear me. — 

El. Say, my lord, 

For your own lips shall vindicate my fame ; 
Since at the altar I became your wife, 
Can malice charge me with an act, a word, 
I ought to blush at ? Have I not still lived 
As open to the eye of observation, 
As fearless innocence should ever live? 
I call attesting angels to be witness, 
If in my open deed, or secret thought, 
My conduct, or my heart, they 've aught discerned 
Which did not emulate their purity. 

Dovg. This vindication ere you were accused, 
This warm defence, this warding off' attacks 
Ere they are made, and construing casual words 
To formal accusations, — trust me, madam, — 
Shows rather an alarmed and vigilant spirit, 
For ever on the watch to guard its secret. 
Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence. 
Who talked of guilt? Who testified suspicion ? 

El- Learn, sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from blame, 
Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming ; 
Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness 



MISS HANNAH MORE. 145 

Behind the studied pomp of boastful phrase, 
Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters ; 
But when this virtue feels itself suspected, 
Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stained, 
It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth, 
And rates itself above its real value. 



SCENES OF EARLY LOVE. 

(FROM the same.) 

Hubert, let my soul indulge its softness ! 
The hour, the spot, is sacred to Elwina. 
This was her favourite walk ; I well remember 
(For who forgets that loves as I have loved ?) 

'T was in that very bower she gave that scarf, 
Wrought by the hand of love : she bound it on, 
And, smiling, cried, " Whate'er befall us, Percy, 
Be this the sacred pledge of faith between us." 

1 knelt, and swore ; called every power to witness, 
No time nor circumstance should force it from me ! 
But vowed to lose my life and this together. 
Here I repeat my vow. 

O Hubert, Hubert ! to a soul enamoured 
There is a sort of local sympathy, 
Which, when we view the scenes of early passion, 
Paints the bright image of the object loved 
In stronger colours than remoter scenes 
Could ever paint it ; realizes shadow : 
Imbodies vacancy ; lends shape and being 
To airy fantasy ; substance to thought ; 
Fiction to truth ; and breath and voice to words ; 
Dresses the object up in all its charms ; 
Talks to it nearer, frames its answers kinder, 
And turns imagination into vision. 
13 K 



146 MISS HANNAH MORE. 

LOVE AND HONOUR. 

(FROM THE FATAL FALSEHOOD.) 

Julia. How many cares perplex the maid who loves ! 
Cares, which the vacant heart can never know. 
Vim fondly tremble for a brother's life; 
Orlando mourns the absence of a friend ; 
Guildford is anxious for a son's renown ; 
In my poor heart your various terrors meet, 
With added fears and fonder apprehensions: 
They all unite in me; I feel for all — 
His life, his fame, his absence, and his love; 
For he may live to see his native home, 
And he may live to bless a sister's hopes, 
May live to gratify impatient friendship, 
May live to crown a father's house with honour, 
May live to glory, yet be dead to love. 

Em. Forbear these fears; they wound my brother's honour; 
Julia! a brave man must be ever faithful; 
Cowards alone dare venture to be false ; 
Cowards alone dare injure trusting virtue, 
And with bold perjuries affront high Heaven. 

Julia. I know his faith, and venerate his virtues ; 
I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave, 
That all his father's worth, his sister's softness, 
Meet in his generous breast — and yet I fear — 
Who ever loved like me, and did not fear ? 

VIETI'E. 
(FROM THE SAME.) 

Or. What, wrong her virtue ? 

Ber. Still this cant of virtue ! 

This pomp of words, this phrase without a meaning ! 
I grant that honour 's something, manly honour ; 
I 'd fight, I 'd burn, I 'd bleed, I 'd die for honour ; 
But what's this virtue? 



MISS HANNAH MORE. 147 

Or. Ask you what it is ? 

Why, 't is what libertines themselves adore ; 
'T is that which wakens love and kindles rapture, 
Beyond the rosy lip or starry eye. 
Virtue! 'tis that which gives a secret force 
To common charms ; but to true loveliness 
Lends colouring celestial. Such its power, 
That she who ministers to guilty pleasures, 
Assumes its semblance when she most Avould please. 
Virtue ! 't is that ethereal energy 
Which gives to body spirit, soul to beauty. 



MORNING HYMN. 

Soft slumbers now mine eyes forsake; 

My powers are all renewed ; 
May my freed spirit too awake, 

With heavenly strength endued ! 

Thou silent murderer Sloth, no more 

My mind imprisoned keep; 
Nor let me waste another hour 

With thee, thou felon Sleep. 

Hark, O my soul, could dying men 

One lavished hour retrieve, 
Though spent in tears, and passed in pain, 

What treasures would they give ! 

But seas of pearl, and mines of gold, 

Were offered them in vain; 
Their pearl of countless price is lost;* 

And where 's- the promised gain? 

* See Matthew xiii. 46. 



148 MISS HANNAH MORE. 

Lord, when thy day of dread account 
For squandered hours shall come, 

O let them not increase th' amount, 
And swell the former sum ! 



Teach me in health each good to prize, 

I, dying, shall esteem ; 
And every pleasure to despise 

I then shall worthless deem. 

For all thy wondrous mercies past 

My grateful voice I raise, 
While thus I quit the bed of rest, 

Creation's Lord to praise. 

UNOSTENTATIOUS VIRTUE. 
(FROM DAVID AND GOLIATH.) 

Jes. Let not thy youth be dazzled, O my son 
With deeds of bold emprise, as valour only 
Were virtue, and the gentle arts of peace, 
Of truth, and justice, were not worth thy care. 
When thou shalt view the splendours of the war, 
The gay caparison, the burnished shield, 
The plume-crowned helmet, and the glittering spear, 
Scorn not the humble virtues of the shade, 
Nor think that Heaven views only with applause 
The active merit and the busy toil 
Of heroes, statesmen, and the bustling sons 
Of public care. These have their just reward, 
In wealth, in honours, and the well-earned fame 
Their high achievements bring. 

* * * * O my son! 

The ostentatious virtues which still press 
For notice and for praise — the brilliant deeds 



MISS HANNAH MORE. 149 

Which live but in the eye of observation — 
These have their meed at once. But there 's a joy 
To the fond votaries of fame unknown, 
To hear the still small voice of conscience speak 
Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul. 
Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves ; 
Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard, 
And from the cheek of patient sorrow wipes 
The tear by mortal eye unseen or scorned. 



(FROM THE SAME.) 

Dav. And what is death? 

Is it so terrible to die, my brother ? 
Or grant it terrible, is it for that 
The less inevitable ? If, indeed, 
We could by stratagem elude the blow, 
When some high duty calls us forth to die, 
And thus for ever shun it, and escape 
The universal lot, — then fond self-love, 
Then cautious prudence, boldly might produce 
Their fine-spun arguments, their learned harangues, 
Their cobweb arts, their phrase sophistical, 
Their subtile doubts, and all the specious tricks 
Of selfish cunning labouring for its end. 
But since, howe'er protracted, death will come, 
Why fondly study, with ingenious pains, 
To put it off? — To breathe a little longer 
Is to defer our fate, but not to shun it. 
Small gain ! which wisdom, with indifferent eye, 
Beholds. Why wish to drink the bitter dregs 
Of life's exhausted chalice, whose last runnings, 
E'en at the best, are vapid ! Why not die 
(If Heaven so will) in manhood's opening bloom, 
When all the flush of life is gay about us ; 

13* 



150 MISS HANNAH MORE. 

When sprightly youth, with many a new-born joy, 

Solicits every sense ? so may we then 

Present a sacrifice, unmeet indeed, 

(Ah, how unmeet!) but less unworthy far, 

Than the world's leavings ; than a worn-out heart, 

By vice enfeebled, and by vain desires 

Sunk and exhausted ! 



ROMANCING. 

(FROM THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS.) 

Pas. To me, no joys could pomp or fame impart ; 
Far softer thoughts possessed my virgin heart. 
No prudent parent formed my ductile youth, 
Nor led my footsteps in the paths of truth. 
Left to myself to cultivate my mind, 
Pernicious novels their soft entrance find : 
Their poisonous influence led my mind astray : 
I sighed for something, what, I could not say. 
I fancied virtues which were never seen, 
And died for heroes who have never been ; 
I sickened with disgust at sober sense, 
And loathed the pleasures worth and truth dispense ; 
I scorned the manners of the world I saw ; 
My guide was fiction, and romance my law. 
Distempered thoughts my wandering fancy fill, 
Each wind a zephyr, and each brook a rill ; 
I found adventures in each common tale, 
And talked and sighed to every passing gale ; 
Conversed with echoes, woods, and shades, and bowers, 
Cascades, and grottoes, fields, and streams, and flowers. 
Retirement, more than crowds, had learned to please ; 
For treacherous leisure feeds the soft disease, 
There plastic fancy ever moulds at will 
Th' obedient image with a dangerous skill ; 



MISS HANNAH MORE. 151 

The charming fiction, with alluring art, 

Awakes the passions, and ini'ects the heart. 

A fancied heroine, an ideal wife, 

I loathed the offices of real life. 

These all were dull and tame ; I longed to prove 

The generous ardours of unequal love ; 

Some marvel still my wayward heart must strike ; 

Or prince, or peasant, each had charms alike : 

Whate'er inverted nature, custom, law, 

With joy I courted, and with transport saw. 

In the dull walk of virtue's quiet round, 

No aliment my fevered fancy found, 

Each duty to perform observant still, 

But those which God and nature bade me fill. 



INDOLENCE. 

Till now, I 've slept on life's tumultuous tide, 

No principle of action for my guide. 

From ignorance my chief misfortunes flow ; 

I never wished to learn, or cared to know ; 

With every folly slow-paced time beguiled ; 

In size a woman, but in soul a child. 

In slothful ease my moments crept away, 

And busy trifles filled the tedious day, 

I lived extempore, as fancy fired, 

As chance directed, or caprice inspired ; 

Too indolent to think, too weak to choose, 

Too soft to blame, too gentle to refuse; 

My character was stamped from those around ; 

The figures they, my mind the simple ground. 

Fashion, with monstrous forms, the canvas strained, 

Till nothing of my genuine self remained ; 

My pliant soul from chance received its bent, 

And neither good performed, nor evil meant. 



152 ANNE YEARSLY. 

From right to wrong, from vice to virtue thrown, 
No character possessing of its own. 
To shun fatigue I made my only law ; 
Yet every night my wasted spirits saw. 
No plan e'er marked the duties of the clay, 
Which stole in tasteless apathy away : 
No energy informed my languid mind ; 
No joy the idle e'er must hope to find. 
Weak indecision all my actions swayed; 
Tne day was lost before the choice was made. 
Though more to folly than to guilt inclined, 
A drear vacuity possessed my mind. 
Too old with infant sports to be amused, 
Unfit for converse, and to books unused, 
The wise avoided me : they could not hear 
My senseless prattle with a patient ear. 
I sought retreat, but found, with strange surprise, 
Retreat is pleasant only to the wise ; 
The crowded world by vacant minds is sought, 
Because it saves th' expense and pain of thought. 



ANNE YEARSLY, 

A milkwoman of Bristol, was brought to the knowledge of Miss 
Hannah More by her extreme poverty. On visiting her with relief, 
Miss More discovered in some scraps of poetry written by her, marks of 
talent; and enthusiastically employed her own literary skill and influ- 
ence to bring forward the object of her bounty as an authoress, bestowing 
upon her the Delia Cruscan pseudonym of Lnctilla; Anne, in return, 
n-lorifying her patroness as Stella. Miss More says, that she covered a 
thousand pages in correcting the pieces, and in letters of application on 
behalf of her poetical pet. Horace Walpole, Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Bosca- 
wen, and a host of others, joined in the enterprise of securing laurels and 
pounds sterling for the genius of the pail. Her first collection of pieces 



ANNE YEARSLY. 153 

passed through three editions, the subscribers to which were found in all 
classes, from the Duke to the tradesman; and the profits amounted to 
£600. From these facts our readers may guess the popularity of Lactilla 
at the time. The scheme turned out badly ; the woman was ungrateful 
and abusive, (" an odious creature," as Mr. Boscawen calls her) : she 
insisted upon her right to spend her profits as she pleased, acquired, Miss 
More says, bad habits, and soon sunk back to her original obscurity, from 
which we raise her for a moment, only because of the curiosity and interest 
she once excited. It is, of course, not possible to tell how much her 
writings are indebted to Miss More : yet they show very little of the 
character which might have been expected from her want of education, 
abounding in bombastic, but not erroneous, allusions to classic fables; Mel- 
pomene, Sisyphus, Tritons, Phoebus, &c. figuring in her lines as old and 
familiar acquaintances. It must be confessed, however, that, unless Miss 
More re-wrote all the pieces, " the milkwoman of Bristol" had no inconsi- 
derable talent, as may be seen from the characteristic extracts we give.* 

TO STELLA. 

(ON her accusing the author of flattery.) 

Excuse me, Stella, sunk in humble state, 

With more than needful awe I view the great ; 

No glossy diction e'er can aid the thought 

First stamped in ignorance with error fraught. 

My friends T 've praised — they stood in heavenly guise, 

When first I saw thee, and my mental eyes 

Shall in that heavenly rapture view thee still ; 

For mine 's a stubborn and a savage will ; 

No customs, maimers, nor soft arts I boast, 

On my rough soul your nicest rules are lost. 

Yet shall unpolished gratitude be mine, 

While Stella deigns to nurse the spark divine. 



* It is but fair to note that she made a plausible defence of herself in 
a preface to a fourth edition of her poems; and that in a second collection, 
published after the quariel, she proves herself not to have been entirely 
dependent upon Miss More for thought or language, the additional pieces 
being nearly as good as the first. It appears from one of them, that the 
Earl of Bristol stood sponsor for one of her children. 
13* 



154 ANNE YEARSLY. 

A savage pleads — let e'en her errors move. 

And your forgiving spirit melt in love. 

O cherish gentle Pity's lambent flame, 

From Heaven's own bosom the soft pleader came. 

Then deign to bless a soul, who'll ne'er degrade 

Your gift, tho' sharpest miseries invade. 

You I acknowledge next to bounteous heaven, 

Like his, your influence cheers whene'er ' tis given : 

Blest in dispensing, gentle Stella, hear 

My only short, but pity-moving prayer, 

That thy great soul may spare the rustic Muse, 

Whom science ever scorned, and errors still abuse. 

CLIFTON HILL. 

(WRITTEN IN JANUARY 1785.) 

In this lone hour, when angry storms dscend, 
And the chilled soul deplores her distant friend ; 
When all her sprightly fires inactive lie, 
And gloomy objects fill the mental eye ; 
When hoary Winter strides the northern blast, 
And Flora's beauties at his feet are cast; 
Earth by the grizzly tyrant desert made, 
The feathered warblers quit the leafless shade; 
Quit those dear scenes where life ard love began, 
And, cheerless seek the savage haunts of man. 
How mourns each tenant of the silent grove ! 
No soft sensation turns the heart to love ; 
No fluttering pulse awakes to Rapture's call ; 
No strain responsive aids the water's fall. 
The swain neglects the nymph, he knows not why, 
The nymph, indifferent, mourns the freezing sky; 
Alike insensible to soft desire, 
She asks no warmth but from the kitchen fire. 
Love seeks a milder zone ; half sunk in snow, 
Lactilla, shivering, tends her fav'rite cow; 



ANNE YEARSLY. 1^5 

The bleating flocks now ask the bounteous hand, 

And crystal streams in frozen fetters stand. 

The beauteous red-breast, tender in her frame, 

Whose murder marks the fool with treble shame, 

Near the low cottage door, in pensive mood, 

Complains and mourns her brothers of the wood. 

Her song oft waked the soul to tender joys, 

All but his restless soul whose gun destroys ; 

For this, rough clown, long pains on thee shall wait, 

And freezing want avenge their hapless fate ; 

For these fell murders mayst thou change thy kind, 

In outward form as savage as in mind; 

Go be a bear of Pythagorean name, 

From man distinguished by thy hideous frame. 

— Though slow and pensive now the moments roll, 

Successive months shall from our torpid soul 

Hurry these scenes again ; the laughing hours 

Advancing swift, shall strew spontaneous flowers ; 

The early-peeping snowdrop, crocus mild, 

And modest violet grace the secret wild : 

Pale primrose, daisy, may-pole decking sweet 

And purple hyacinth together meet : 

All Nature's sweets in joyous circles move 

And wake the frozen soul again to love. 

The ruddy swain now stalks along the vale, 

And snuffs fresh ardour from the flying gale ; 

The landscape rushes on his untaught mind, 

Strong raptures rise, but raptures undefined ; 

He louder whistles, stretches o'er the green, 

By screaming milk-maids, not unheeded, seen ; 

The downcast look ne'er fixes on the swain, 

They dread his eye, retire, and gaze again. 

— 'T is mighty Love. — Ye blooming maids, beware, 

Nor the lone thicket with the lover dare. 

No high romantic rules of honour bind 

The timid virgin of the rural kind ; 



156 MRS. GRANT. 

No conquest of the passions e'er was taught, 

Nor meed e'er given them for the vanquished thought ; 

To sacrifice, to govern or restrain, 

Or to extinguish, or to hug the pain, 

Was never theirs ; instead, the fear of shame 

Proves a strong bulwark and secures their fame ; 

Shielded by this, they flout, reject, deny, 

While mock disdain puts the fond lover by ; 

Unreal scorn, stern looks, affected pride, 

Awe the poor swain and save the trembling bride. 



MRS. GRANT, OF LAGGAN. 

This well-known lady, the widow of a Presbyterian clergyman of 
Inverness-shire, Scotland, whose Letters from the Mountains have 
been so generally and deservedly admired, published a volume of poems 
in 1801, which show the same talents that made her descriptions of 
scenery so graphic and delightful. She also wrote Memoirs of an 
American Lady, (Mrs. Schuyler, widow of Colonel Philip Schuyler, 
who died in 1757,) and An Essay on the Superstitions of the Scotch 
Highlanders. She died in 1838. We give her characteristic verses. 



ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. 

Flower of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns 
For thee the brake and tangled wood — 

To thy protecting shade she runs, 
Thy tender buds supply her food ; 

Her young forsake her downy plumes, 

To rest upon thy opening blooms. 



MRS. GRANT. 157 

Flower of the desert though thou art! 

The deer that range the mountain free, 
The graceful doe, the stately hart, 

Their food and shelter seek from thee ; 
The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 
And draws from thee her choicest sweets. 

Gem of the heath ! whose modest gloom 

Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; 
Though thou dispense no rich perfume, 

Nor yet with splendid tints allure, 
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower 
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. 

Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow 

Adorns the dusky mountain's side, 
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, 

Nor garden's artful varied pride, 
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, 
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. 

Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild 
Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ; 

To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, 
And deck his bonnet with the wreath, 

Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, 

Is all his simple wish requires. 

Flower of his dear-loved native land! 

Alas, when distant far more dear ! 
When he from some cold foreign strand, 

Looks homeward through the blinding tear, 
How must his aching heart deplore, 
That home and thee he sees no more! 

14 

















158 










MRS. 


GRANT. 


Also 


a 


descr 


ption of 














THE 


HIGHLAND POOR. 



(FROM HER POEM OF THE HIGHLANDER.) 

Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene, 

The narrow opening glens that intervene 

Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure 

One poorer than the rest — where all are poor ; 

Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief, 

Who to her secret breast confines her grief; 

Dejected sighs the wintry night away, 

And lonely muses all the summer day : 

Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's charms. 

Pursued the phantom Fame through war's alarms, 

Return no more ; stretched on Hindostan's plain, 

Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main ; 

In vain her eyes the watery waste explore 

For heroes — fated to return no more ! 

Let others bless the morning's reddening beam, 

Foe to her peace — it breaks the illusive dream 

That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, 

Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast ; 

And as they strove, with smiles of filial love, 

Their widowed parent's anguish to remove, 

Through her small casement broke the intrusive day, 

And chased the pleasing images away ! 

No time can e'er her banished joys restore, 

For ah ! a heart once broken heals no more. 

The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye, 

The ' still small voice' of sacred sympathy, 

In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile, 

Or steal from weary woe one languid smile ; 

Yet what they can they do — 'the scanty store, 

So often opened for the wandering poor, 



JOANNA BAILLIE, 159 

To her each cottager complacent deals, 
While the kind glance the melting heart reveals ; 
And still, when evening streaks the west with gold, 
The milky tribute from the lowing fold 
With cheerful haste officious children bring, 
And every smiling flower that decks the spring ; 
Ah ! little know the fond attentive train, 
That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain : 
Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe, 
And of their little all a part bestow. 
Let those to wealth and proud distinction born, 
With the cold glance of insolence and scorn 
Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve 
The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve : 
Far different these ; while from a bounteous heart 
With the poor sufferer they divide a part; 
Humbly they own that all they have is given 
A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven : 
And the next blighted crop or frosty spring, 
Themselves to equal indigence may bring. 



JOANNA BAILLIE, 

Born at Bothwell, in Scotland, 1765, but long a resident at Hamp- 
stead, near London, where she now lingers out an extreme old age, 
venerable and beloved. Few writers have commanded a more affec- 
tionate and respectful admiration than she has enjoyed, as a willing 
tribute from her contemporaries, during her long literary career; and 
criticism has hushed its suspicions of her defects in a desire to appre- 
ciate her noble endeavours after a pure and elevated style. Walter 
Scott, who enjoyed her friendship, honoured her with the title of " the 
tenth Muse," and has celebrated her praise in these graceful lines : 

" the notes that rung 

From the wild harp, which silent hung 



160 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

By silver Avon's holy shore, 

Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er; 

When she, the bold enchantress, came, 

With fearless hand, and heart on flame! 

From the pale willow snatched the treasure, 

And swept it with a kindred measure, 

Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 

With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, 

Awakening at the inspired strain, 

Deemed their own Shakspeare lived again." 

This is high but extravagant encomium. In her dramatic writings, 
her aims are higher than the reach of her genius. The wish to display 
in each of her plays the effects of a single passion, has led her, against 
nature, to merge the individual in a character too general, overlook- 
ing the various minor motives and incidents which mingle with the 
master sentiment, and give a distinct separateness to each human being; 
like the expression of the countenance in different persons, who bear 
the human face, but are unlike even in their likeness to one another. 
Miss Baillie would have succeeded better in her delineations, as a 
didactic poet, than as a dramatist. Her best passages are those in 
which womanly feeling has its vent; but she does not comprehend the 
workings of a man's soul sufficiently to speak its language. Her tra- 
gedies, though read with pleasure in the closet, are not of sufficient 
acting capacity for the stage, and but one of them has gained admit- 
tance to the boards, — De Montfort, in which Kemble sustained the 
principal part for eleven nights; and afterwards Kean, both in England 
and this country. The latter pronounced it a fine poem, but not a suc- 
cessful play. Some of her sweetest and most striking passages occur in 
her Martyr; where her feminine appreciation of religion enables her 
to seize upon the noble sentiments which faith suggests. The piece 
suffers, however, when compared with Milman's on the same subject, or 
the truly tragic interest of Lockhart's powerful tale, Valerius. Her 
comedies are utter failures. 

Miss Baillie's miscellaneous poems are sufficient in number to fill a 
volume; and from these, with some of the songs in her plays, which 
have much metrical merit, we supply our specimens of her most pleas- 
ing manner. Her poem on The Kitten will lead the reader almost to 
suspect Wordsworth to have taken the hint of his exquisite lines on the 
same subject from that early piece of our authoress. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 161 

A BATTLE FIELD. 

(FROM ethwald.) 

' So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun, 
Rose cheerily, and girt your armour on 
With all the vigour, and capacity, 
And comeliness of strong and youthful men. 
Ye also, taken in your manhood's wane, 
With grizzled pates, from mates, whose withered hands 
For some good thirty years had smoothed your couch : 
Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth 
Did give you the similitude of men 
Ere your fond mothers ceased to tend you still, 
As nurselings of their care, ye lie together!' 

' Oh ! there be some 
Whose writhed features, fixed in all the strength 
Of grappling agony, do stare upon you, 

With their dead eyes half opened. 

And there be some struck through with bristling darts, 
Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up ; 
Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand. 
Nay, some I 've seen among those bloody heaps, 
Defaced and 'reft e'en of the form of men, 
Who in convulsive motion yet retain 
Some shreds of life more horrible than death.' 

THE PRISONER. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

' Ed. Doth the bright sun, from the high arch of heaven, 
In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds, 
And ruddy vapours, and deep glowing flames, 
And softly varied shades, look gloriously ? 
Do the green woods dance to the wind ? the lakes 

14* L 



162 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Cast up their sparkling waters to the light ? 
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells 
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke 
On the soft morning air ? 

Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound 
In antic happiness ? and mazy birds 
Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands ? 
Ay, all this is ; men do behold all this ; 
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault, 
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear 
The crowing of the cock so near my walls, 
And sadly think how small a space divides me 
From all this fair creation.' 

A BRAVE MAN'S DREAD OP DEATH- 

(FROM EA YNER.) 

' Rayncr. Death is to me an awful thing ; nay, Father 
I fear to die. And were it in my power. 
By suffering of the keenest racking pains, 
To keep upon me still these weeds of nature, 
I could such things endure, that thou wouldst marvel, 
And cross thyself to see such coward bravery. 
For oh ! it goes against the mind of man 
To be turned out from its warm wonted home, 
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill.' 

This bell speaks with a deep and sullen voice : 
The time comes on apace with silent speed. 
Is it indeed so late ? (Looking at his watch.) 

It is even so. 
(Pausing and looking still at, the watch.) 
How soon time flies away ! yet, as I watch it, 
Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand, 
I should have lived an age since yesterday, 
And have an age to live. Still on it creeps, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 163 

Each little moment at another's heels, 

Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up 

Of such small parts as these, and men look back, 

Worn and bewildered, wondering how it is. 

Thou travellest like a ship in the wide ocean, 

Whicli hath no bounding shore to mark its progress ; 

Time ! ere long I shall have done with thee. 
When next thou leadest on thy nightly shades, 
Though many a weary heart thy steps may count, 
Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me. 

Then shall J be a thing, at thought of which 
The roused soul swells boundless and sublime, 
Or wheels in wildness of unfathomed fears : 
A thought ; a consciousness ; unbodied spirit. 
Who but would shrink from this ? 
But wherefore shrink ? came we not thus to earth ? 
And he who sent, prepared reception for us. 
Ay, glorious are the things that are prepared, 
As we believe ! — yet, heaven pardon me ! 

1 fain would skulk beneath my wonted covering, 
Mean as it is. 

Ah, Time ! when next thou fillest thy nightly term, 
Where shall I be ? Fye ! fye upon thee still ! 
E'en where weak infancy, and timorous age, 
And maiden fearfulness have gone before thee ; 
And where, as well as him of firmest soul, 
The meanly-minded and the coward are. 
Then trust thy nature, at the approaching push, 
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants, 
And can bear all things.' 

passing joy. 
(from orka.) 
'Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud 



164 JOANNA BA1LLIE. 

In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day, 

Shiver in silvery brightness ? 

Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning, flash 

In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path, 

Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 

Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods, j 

Give to the parting of a wintry sun 

One hasty glance in mockery of the night 

Closing in darkness round it ? — Gentle friend ! 

Chide not her mirth, who was sad yesterday, 

And may be so to-morrow.' 

a woman's picture of country life. 

(from the same.*) 

' Even now methinks 
Each little cottage of my native vale 
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, 
Like to a hillock moved by lab'ring mole, 
And with green trail-weeds clamb'ring up its walls, 
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant, 
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower. 
Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell. 
Peep thro' its wreathed window, if indeed 
The flowers grow not too close ; and there within 
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats, 
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk : — 
Those are my mountain elves. See'st thou not 
Their very forms distinctly ?' 

' I '11 gather round my board 
All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks, 
And noble travellers, and neighb'ring friends, 
Both young and old. Within my ample hall, 
The worn-out man of arms, shall o'tiptoe tread, 
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow 



JOANNA BAIL LIE. 165 

With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats 
Of days gone by. — Music we'll have ; and oft 
The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors 
Shall, thund'ring loud, strike on the distant ear 
Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend 
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. 
Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure 
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ? 

Ev'ry season 
Shall have its suited pastime : even winter 
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, 
And choked valleys from our mansion bar 
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller 
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, 
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, 
We '11 hold our little, snug, domestic court, 
Plying our work with song and tale between/ 

THE BEACON. 

(FROM THE BEACON.) 

Aur. Make no excuse, I pray thee. 
How many leagues from shore may such a light 
By the benighted mariner be seen ? 

Bast. Some six or so, he will descry it faintly, 
Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering 
From some caved rock that brows the dreary waste ; 
Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house, 
Which through the silent night the traveller spies 
Upon his doubtful way. 

Viol. Fie on such images ! 
Thou should'st have liken'd it to things more seemly. 
Thou might'st have said the peasant's evening fire 
That from his upland cot, thro' winter's gloom, 
What time his wife their evening meal prepares, 



166 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Blinks on the traveller's eye and cheers his heart ; 
Or signal-torch, that from my lady's bower 
Tells wandering knights the revels are begun ; 
Or blazing brand, that from the vintage house 
O' long October nights, thro' the still air 
Looks rousingly.' 

THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD. 

(FROM THE SEPARATION.) 
ROVANI. 

Enter Rovani, followed by Nurse, carrying a sleeping infant. 

Come on, good Nurse ; thou need'st not be ashamed 

To show thy bantling, sleeping or awake 

A nobler, comelier, curly-pated urchin 

Ne'er changed the face of stern and warlike sire 

To tearful tenderness. — Look here, my Lord. 

garcio (turning eagerly round). 

The child ! my child ! (Lifting the mantle that covers it, and 

gazing on the infant.) 



Ay, there are cheeks and lips like roses glowing ; 
And, see, half-opened eyelids show within 
The dewy azure of his sleeping eyes, 
Like loopholes in a cloud. — Awake, sweet imp ! 

GARCIO. 

Nay, wake him not ; his sleep is beautiful. 

Let me support come to my stirring heart, 

And here be cradled, thing of wond'rous joy ! 

( Taking the child.) 
Here, in the inmost core of beating life, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 167 

I'd lodge thee. Mine thou art! yes, thou art mine 
Here is my treasured being : thou wilt love me. 

(Laying Ids face close to the chiWs.) 
Blest softness ! little hand and little cheek ! 
This is a touch so sweet ! a blessed touch ! 
There is love in it ; love that will not change ! 

(Bursting into tears, while the Nurse takes the child 
again.) 

THE TRAVELLERS BY NIGHT. 

But yet more pleased, thro' murky air 
He spies the distant bonfire's glare ; 
And, nearer to the spot advancing, 
Black imps and goblins round it dancing ; 
And, nearer still, distinctly traces 
The featur'd disks of happy faces, 
Grinning and roaring in their glory, 
Like Bacchants wild of ancient story, 
And making murgeons to the flame, 
As it were play-mate of their game. 
Full well, I trow, could modern stage 
Such acting for the nonce engage, 
A crowded audience every night 
Would press to see the jovial sight; 
And this, from cost and squeezing free, 
November's nightly travelers see. 

Thro' village, lane, or hamlet going, 
The light from cottage window showing 
Its inmates at their evening fare, 
By rousing fire and earthenware — 
And pewter trenchers on the shelf, — 
Harmless display of worldly pelf! — ■ 
Is transient vision to the eye 
Of hasty trav'ller passing by ; 



168 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Yet much of pleasing imporl tells, 
And cherish'd in the fane} dwells, 
Where simple innocence and mirth 
Encircle still the cottage hearth. 
Across the road a fiery glare 
Doth blacksmith's open forge declare, 
Where furnace-blast, and measur'd din 
Of hammers twain, and all within, — 
The brawny mates their labour plying, 
From heated bar the red sparks flying, 
And idle neighbours standing by 
With open mouth and dazzled eye, 
The rough and sooty walls with store 
Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er, — • 
An armory of sullied sheen, — 
All momently are heard and seen. 

Nor does he often fail to meet, 
In market town's dark narrow street, 
(Even when the night on pitchy wings 
The sober hour of bed-time brings,) 
Amusement. From the alehouse door, 
Having full bravely paid his score, 
Issues the tipsy artisan, 
With tipsier brother of the can, 
And oft to wile him homeward tries 
With coaxing words, so wond'rous wise ! 
The dame demure, from visit late, 
Her lantern borne before in state 
By sloven footboy, paces slow, 
With patten'd feet and hooded brow. 
Where the seam'd window-board betrays 
Interior light, full closely lays 
The eves-dropper his curious ear, 
Some neighbour's fire-side talk to hear-, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 169 

While, from an upper casement bending, 
A household maid, belike, is sending 
From jug or ever a slopy shower, 
That makes him homeward fleetly scour. 
From lower rooms few gleams are sent, 
From blazing hearth, thro' chink or rent ; 
But from the loftier chambers peer 
(Where damsels doff their gentle gear, 
For rest preparing,) tapers bright, 
Which give a momentary sight 
Of some fair form with visage glowing, 
With loosen'd braids and tresses flowing, 
Who, busied, by the mirror stands, 
With bending head and up-rais'd hands, 
Whose moving shadow strangely falls 
With size enlarged on roof and walls. 
Ah ! lovely are the things, I ween, 
By arrowy Speed's light glam'rie seen ! 
Fancy, so touch'd, will long retain 
That quickly seen, nor seen again. 

Yet this short scene of noisy coil 
But serves our trav'ller as a foil, 
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending 
A charm to pensive quiet, sending 
To home and friends, left far behind, 
The kindliest musings of his mind ; 
Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain, 
A dimness o'er the haggard train 
A mood and hour like this will throw, 
As vex'd and burthen'd spirits know. 

Night, loneliness, and motion are 
Agents of power to distant care ; 
To distance, not discard ; for then, 
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men, 



15 



170 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Necessity to act suspended, 
The present, past, and future blended, 
Like figures of a mazy dance, 
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance, 
Till jolting stone, or turnpike gate 
Arouse him from the soothing state. 

The road, that in fair simple day 
Thro' pasture-land or corn-fields lay, 
A broken hedge-row's ragged screen 
Skirting its weedy margin green, — 
With boughs projecting, interlaced 
With thorn and briar, distinctly traced 
On the deep shadows at their back, 
That deeper sinks to pitchy black, 
Appearing oft to Fancy's eye, 
Like woven boughs of tapestrie, — 
Seems now to wind thro' tangled wood, 
Or forest wild, where Robin Hood, 
AVith all his outlaws, stout and bold, 
In olden days his reign might hold, 
Where vagrant school-boy fears to roam, 
The gypsy's haunt, the woodman's home. 
Yea, roofless barn and ruin'd wall, 
As passing lights upon them fall, 
When favour'd by surrounding gloom, 
The castle's ruin'd state assume. 

How many are the subtle ways, 
By which sly Night the eye betrays, 
When in her wild fantastic mood, 
By lone and wakeful trav'ller woo'd ! 
Shall I proceed ? O no ! for now 
Upon the black horizon's brow 
Appears a line of tawny light ; 
Thy reign is ended, witching Night! 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

And soon thy place a wizard elf, 
(But only second to thyself 
In glamrie's art) will quickly take, 
Spreading o'er meadow, vale, and brake, 
Her misty shroud of pearly white : — 
A modest, tho' deceitful wight, 
Who in a softer, gentler way, 
Will with the wakeful fancy play, 
When knolls of woods, their bases losing, 
Are islands on a lake reposing, 
And streeted town, of high pretence, 
As rolls away the vapour dense, 
With all its wavy curling billows, 
Is but a row of pollard willows. — 
O no ! my trav'ller, still and lone, 
A far fatiguing way hath gone ; 
His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest, 
And folds his arms, and goes to rest 



THE KITTEN. 

Wanton droll, whose harmless play 

Beguiles the rustic's closing day, 

When drawn the evening fire about, 

Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout, 

And child upon his three-foot stool, 

Waiting till his supper cool ; 

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, 

As bright the blazing fagot glows, 

Who, bending to the friendly light, 

Plies her task with busy sleight ; 

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, 

Thus circled round with merry faces. 

Backward coiled, and crouching low, 
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, 



171 



172 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

The housewife's spindle whirling round, 
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground 
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly 
Held out to lure thy roving eye ; 
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring 
Upon the futile, faithless thing. 
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, 
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, 
As oft beyond thy curving side 
Its jetty tip is seen to glide ; 
Till, from thy centre starting fair, 
Thou sidelong rearest with rump in air, 
Erected stiff, and gait awry, 
Like madam in her tantrums high : 
Though ne'er a madam of them all, 
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, 
More varied trick and whim displays, 
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze. 



The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, 
To thee is but a clumsy wight, 
Who every limb and sinew strains 
To do what costs thee little pains ; 
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd 
Requites him oft with plaudits loud. 
But, stopped the while thy wanton play, 
Applauses, too, thy feats repay : 
For then beneath some urchin's hand, 
With modest pride thou takest thy stand, 
While many a stroke of fondness glides 
Along thy back and tabby sides. 
Dilated swells thy glossy fur, 
And loudly sings thy busy purr, 
As, timing well the equal sound, 
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

And all their harmless claws disclose, 
Like prickles of an early rose ; 
While softly from thy whiskered cheek 
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek. 

But not alone by cottage-fire 
Do rustics rude thy feats admire; 
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore 
The widest range of human lore, 
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly 
Through airy heights of poesy, 
Pausing, smiles with altered air 
To see thee climb his elbow chair, 
Or, struggling on the mat below, 
Hold warfare with his slippered toe. 
The widowed dame, or lonely maid, 
Who in the still, but cheerless shade 
Of home unsocial, spends her age, 
And rarely turns a lettered page; 
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall 
The rounded cork, or paper-ball, 
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch 
The ends of ravelled skein to catch, 
But lets thee have thy wayward will, 
Perplexing oft her sober skill, 
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, 
In lonely tower or prison pent, 
Beviews the coil of former days, 
And loathes the world and all its ways ; 
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam 
Doth rouse him from his moody dream, 
Feels, as thou gambolest round his seat, 
His heart with pride less fiercely beat, 
And smiles, a link in thee to find 
That joins him still to living kind. 

Whence hast thou then, thou witless Puss, 
The magic power to charm us thus? 
15* 



173 



174 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Is it, that in thy glaring eye 

And rapid movements we descry, 

While we at ease, secure from ill, 

The chimney-corner snugly fill, 

A lion, darting on the prey, 

A tiger, at his ruthless play ? 

Or is it, that in thee we trace, 

With all thy varied wanton grace, 

An emblem viewed with kindred eye, 

Of tricksy, restless infancy ? 

Ah ! many a lightly sportive child, 

Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, 

To dull and sober manhood grown, 

With strange recoil our hearts disown 

Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure, 

When thou becomest a cat demure, 

Full many a cuff* and angry word, 

Chid roughly from the tempting board. 

And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, 

So oft our favoured playmate been, 

Soft be the change which thou shalt prove 

When time hath spoiled thee of our love ; 

Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, 

A comely, careful, mousing cat, 

Whose dish is, for the public good, 

Replenished oft with savoury food. 

Nor, when thy span of life is past, 
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; 
But gently borne on good man's spade, 
Beneath the decent sod be laid, 
And children show, with glistening eyes, 
The place where poor old Pussy lies. 

REVEILLE. 

Up ! quit thy bower, late wears the hour, 
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower; 



JOANNA B A ILLIE. 

On flower and tree, loud hums the bee, 
The wilding kid sports merrily : 
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, 
Shineth when good fortune's near. 

Up! Lady fair, and braid thy hair, 

And rouse thee in the breezy air; 

The lulling stream, that soothed thy dream, 

Is dancing in the sunny beam ; 

And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, 

Will waft good fortune on its way. 



Wished-for gales the light vane veering, 

Better dreams the dull night cheering; 

Lighter heart the morning greeting, 

Things of better omen meeting ; 

Eyes each passing stranger watching, 

Ears each feeble rnmour catching, 

Say he existeth still on earthly ground, 

The absent will return, the long, long lost be found. 

In the tower the ward-bell ringing, 

In the court the carols singing ; 

Busy hands the gay board dressing, 

Eager steps the threshold pressing, 

Open'd arms in haste advancing, 

Joyful looks thro' blind tears glancing; 

The gladsome bounding of his aged hound, 

Say he in truth is here, our long, long lost is found. 

Hymned thanks and beedsmen praying, 
With sheathed sword the urchin playing; 
Blazoned hall with torches burning, 
Cheerful morn in peace returning ; 



175 



176 JOANNA BAIL LIE. 

Converse sweet that strangely borrows 

Present bliss from former sorrows, 

O who can tell each blessed sight and sound, 

That says, he with us bides, our long, long lost is found. 



SONG. 

Where distant billows meet the sky r 

A pale dull light the seamen spy, 

As spent they stand and tempest-tost, 

Their vessel struck, their rudder lost ; 

While distant homes where kinsmen weep, 

And graves full many a fathom deep, 

By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts portray : 

" 'T is some delusion of the sight, 

Some northern streamer's paly light." 

" Fools !" saith rous'd Hope with gen'rous scorn, 

" It is the blessed peep of morn, 

And aid and safety come when comes the day." 

And so it is; the gradual shine 

Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lengthened line : 

Cloud after cloud begins to glow, 

And tint the changeful deep below ; 

Now sombre red, now amber bright, 

Till upward breaks the blazing light; 

Like floating fire the gleamy billows burn : 

Far distant on the ruddy tide, 

A black'ning sail is seen to glide; 

Loud bursts their eager joyful cry, 

Their hoisted signal waves on high, 

And life and strength and happy thoughts return. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 177 

THE CHOUGH AND THE CROW. 

The chough and crow to roost are gone, 

The owl sits on the tree, 
The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan, 

Like infant charity. 

The wild-fire dances on the fen, 

The red star sheds its ray, 
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

It is our op'ning day. 

Both child and nurse are fast asleep, 

And closed is every flower, 
And winking tapers faintly peep 

High from my Lady's bower : 

Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd ken 

Shrink on their murky way, 
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

It is our op'ning day. 

Nor board nor garner own we now, 

Nor roof nor latched door, 
INTor kind mate, bound by holy vow 

To bless a good man's store ; 

Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, 

And night is grown our day, 
Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men ! 

And use it as ye may. 



The gliding fish that takes his play 
In shady nook of streamlet cool, 

Thinks not how waters pass away, 
And summer dries the pool. 

M 



178 JOANNA BAILLIE. 

The bird beneath his leafy (Ionic. 

Who trills his carol, loud and clear, 
Thinks not how soon his verdant home 

The lightning's breath may sear. 

Shall I, within my bridegroom's bower, 
With braids of budding roses twined, 

Look forward to a coining hour 
When he may prove unkind ? 

The bee reigns in his waxen cell, 
The chieftain in his stately hold, 

To-morrow's earthquake, — who can tell ? 
May both in ruin fold. 

BRIDAL SONG. 

Open wide the frontal gate, 
The Lady comes in bridal state ; 
Than wafted spices sweeter far, 
Brighter than the morning star; 
Modest as the lily wild, 
Gentle as a nurse's child. 
A lovelier prize of prouder boast, 
Never chieftain's threshold crost. 

Like the beams of early day, 

Her eyes' quick flashes brightly play; 

Brightly play and gladden all 

On whom their kindly glances fall. 

Her lips in smiling weave a charm 

To keep the peopled house from harm. 

In happy moment is she come 

To bless a noble chieftain's home. 

Happy be her dwelling here, 
Many a day and month and year! 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 179 

Happy as the nested dove 
Jn her fruitful ark of love ! 
Happy in her tented screen ! 
Happy in her garden green ! 
Thus we welcome, one and all, 
Our lady to her chieftain's hall. 



SERENADE. 

The sun is down, and time gone by, 

The stars are twinkling in the sky, 

Nor torch nor taper longer may 

Eke out a blythe but stinted day ; 

The hours have pass'd with stealthy flight, 

We needs must part : good night, good night ! 

The bride unto her bower is sent, 

And ribald song and jesting spent; 

The lover's whisper'd words and few 

Have bade the bashful maid adieu ; 

The dancing-floor is silent quite, 

No foot bounds there : good night, good night ! 

The lady in her curtain'd bed, 
The herdsman in his wattled shed, 
The clansmen in the heather'd hall, 
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all ! 
We part in hopes of days as bright 
As this gone by : good night, good night ! 

Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! 

And if upon its stillness fall 

The visions of a busy brain, 

We '11 have our pleasure o'er again, 

To warm the heart, to charm the sight, 

Gay dreams to all ! good night, good night ! 



180 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 



HYMN OF THE MARTYR. 

A long farewell to sin and sorrow, 
To beam of clay and evening shade! 

High in glory breaks our morrow, 
With light that cannot fade. 

While mortal flesh in flame is bleeding, 
For humble penitence and love, 

Our Brother and our Lord is pleading 
At mercy's throne above. 

We leave the hated and the hating, 
Existence sad in toil and strife ; 

The great, the good, the brave are waiting 
To hail our opening life. 

Earth's faded sounds our ears forsaking, 
A moment's silence death shall be ; 

Then, to heaven's jubilee awaking, 
Faith ends in victory. 



MARIA JANE JEWSBURY, 

A native of Warwickshire (about 1800), but the greater part of her 
life a resident of Manchester. She is best known from her prose works. 
Her early years, though her health was feeble, were strenuously devoted 
to study, and at nine years old she conceived the idea of distinguishing 
herself as an authoress. At the age of eighteen, the death of her mother 
brought upon her the care of a larg. 1 family, yet she persevered in her 
studies, and at twenty-two began to publish. Unfortunately, many 
of her best thoughts were wasted in hasty communications to magazines, 
annuals, &c. Her collected works are Phantasmagoria, or Sketches 
of Life and Literature (light essays and tales), Letters to the Young, 
(the fruit of religious meditation after a severe illness), and Three 



MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 181 

Histories (of an Enthusiast, a Nonchalant and a Realist), her best work. 
It is from her Lays of Leisure Hours and contributions to magazines, 
that she has claim to our notice in this work. As a writer of prose she 
has had much favour with the seriously disposed class, and deservedly, 
as she exhibits a lively imagination, a healthy moral tone, and an honest 
zeal to do good. As a writer of verse her merit is less, for, though her 
thoughts are good and her feeling strong, her versification is laboured, 
and destitute of that glow which true poetic fire always communicates 
to the lines it dictates; indeed, she seems, when she attempts verse, to 
lose the imagination which marks her prose; yet she cannot fail to win 
respect by her genuine and cheerful piety. We have headed our 
notice with her maiden name, as by that she will be most readily recog- 
nised, but she was married to the Rev. William Fletcher, whom she 
accompanied on a religious mission to India, where she died of 
cholera, a few months after landing, October 1833. She enjoyed the 
friendship of Mrs. Hemans and of Mr. Wordsworth, who speaks of her 
with beautiful simplicity : " Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety stead- 
fast, and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently use- 
ful in the path to which she had been called. The opinion she enter- 
tained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden 
name, was modest and humble, indeed far below her merits, as is often 
the case witli those who arc making trial of their powers to discover 
what they are fit for. In one quality — quickness in the motions of her 
mind — she was, in the author's estimation, unrivalled." 



THERE IS NONE LIKE UNTO THEE. 

(JEREMIAH X . 6 . ) 

In the dark winter of affliction's hour, 

When summer friends and pleasures haste away, 

And the wrecked heart perceives how frail each power, 

It made a refuge, and believed a stay ; 

When man all wild and weak is seen to be — 

There 's none like thee, O Lord ! there's none like thee ! 

When the world's sorrow — ■ working only death, 
And the world's comfort — caustic to the wound, 
Make the wrung spirit loathe life's daily breath, 
16 



182 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 

As jarring music from a harp untuned; 

While yet it dare not from the discord flee, — ■ 

There 's none like thee, O Lord ! there 's none like thee ! 

When the tossed mind surveys its hidden world, 

And feels in every faculty a foe, 

United but in strife; waves urged and hurled 

By passion and by conscience, winds of woe, 

Till the whole being is a storm-swept sea — 

There 's none like thee, O Lord ! there 's none like thee ! 

Thou, in adversity, canst be a sun ; 

Thou hast a healing balm, a sheltering tower, 

The peace, the truth, the life, the love of One, 

Nor wound, nor grief, nor storm, can overpower 

Gifts of a king ; gifts, frequent and yet free, — 

There 's none like thee, O Lord ! none, none like thee ! 

THE WEEPER AT THE SEPULCHRE. 

A sound in yonder glade, 

But not of fount or breeze, 
A sound — but not of the whispering made 

By the palm and the olive trees ; 
It is not the minstrel's lute, 

Nor the swell of the night-bird's song, 
Nor the city's hum, when all else is mute, 

By echo borne along. 

'Tis a voice — the Saviour's own — 

" Woman, why weepest thou ?" 
She turns — and her grief is for ever flown, 

And the shade that dimmed her brow ; 
He is there, her risen Lord, 

No more to know decline ; 
He is there, with peace in his every word, 

The wept one — still divine. 



MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 183 

"My father's throne to share, 

As King, as God I go, 
But a brother's heart will be with me there, 

For my brethren left below !" 
The Weeper is laid in dust, 

Her Lord is throned on high, 
But our's may be still that Weeper's trust, 

And our's that Lord's reply. 

Mourner — 'mid nature's bloom, 

Dimming its light with tears, — 
And captive — to whom the lone dark room 

Grows darker yet with fears, — 
And spirit — that like a bird 

Rests not on sea or shore, — ■ 
The voice in the olive-glade once heard, 

Hear ye — and weep no more! 



A DREAM OF THE FUTURE. 

A new age expands 
Its white and holy wings, above the peaceful lands. — Bryant. 

It was not in a curtained bed, 

When winter storms were howling dread, 

This pleasant dream I knew; — 
But in the golden month of June, 
Beneath the bright and placid moon, 

In slumber soft as dew 

Alone, in a green and woody dell, 

Where the lovely light of the moonbeams fell, 

With soft sheen on the grass; 
Still, except when a wandering breeze 
Stirring the boughs of the beechen trees, 

Made shadows come and pass. 



184 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 

Silent — but for the midnight bird 

That makes the spot where'er 'tis heard 

With spell and sorcery fraught; 
Filling the mind with imaged things 
Of dreams, and melodies, and wings, 

The faery-land of thought. 

The flowers had folded up their lines, 
But their odours mixed with air and dews 

Made it a bliss to breathe ; 
How could I choose but dream that night, 
With a bower above of bloom aud light, 

A mossy couch beneath ? 

I dreamt — and of this world of woe, 
This very world of gloom and show, 

Where love and beauty cease ; 
This world wherein all fair is frail, 
And but wrong and sorrow never fail, 

Changed to a world of peace. 

And yet remained it as of old, 
Peopled by men of human mould, 

To human feelings wed ; 
Yet, was their traffic in the town, 
Yet, wore the king his glittering crown, 

And peasants earned their bread. 

And day and night were then as now, 
And the stars on heaven's mighty brow, 

Twinkled their sleepless eyes ; 
Like watchers sent by the absent sun, 
To look on all tilings said and done, 

'Till he again arise. 



MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 185 

Spring with its promise went and came, 
And Summer with its breath of flame, 

Flushing the earth with flowers ; 
And Autumn like a sorcerer bold, 
Transmuting by his touch to gold, 

The fruitage of the bovvers. 



Earth still but knew an earthly lot ; 
Yet 't was a changed and charmed spot; 

Where'er the free foot trod ; 
For now no longer crime and sin, 
Like cratered fires its breast within, 

Flamed forth against its God. 

The curse that chained its strength was gone, 
And pleasantly in order shone 

The seasons into life, 
With only Winter plucked away, 
And heat and cold in tempered sway, 

Nature no more at strife. 

The pole had Eden-wealth of flowers, 
The tropic — noons of breezy hours, 

The seamen feared no storm ; 
The traveller far from haunts of men, 
Slept dreadless near the lion's den ; 

Nor did the serpent's form 

With its splendid coat of many dyes, 
Bid hate and fear alternate rise, 

For in the peace prepared, — 
The holy peace that upward ran, 
From man to God, from beast to man, 

Even the serpent shared. 
16* 



186 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 

No clarion stirred the quiet air, 
No banner with its meteor-glare 

The playful breezes saw ; 
Unknown the warrior's battle-blade, 
And judge in gloomy pomp arrayed, 

For love alone was law. 

There might be tears on childhood's cheek 
But few, and passionless, and meek, 

For strife of soul was dead ; 
And every smile with love was fraught, 
And glance of eye, spoke glance of thought, 

Far off deceit and dread. 



Shrined in the bosom of the seas 
Like gardens of Hesperides, 

Lay each beloved land, 
Inhabited by peaceful men, 
Each happy in his calling then, 

In city, vale, or strand. 

For poverty and greatness knew 
Their brotherhood — and service true 

Each from the other won ; 
The slave looked on his broken chain. 
And with a spirit freed from pain, 

Smiled upward on the sun. 

It was a holy, holy time ! 

The soul like nature readied its prime, 

And grew an angel-thing 5 
A paradise of blissful thought — 
A fountain never-fearing drought, 

A palace — God its King. 



MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 187 

It was a holy time ; no sight 
But wore an aspect of delight. 

Peace was in every sound ; 
Peace in the song for the blissful wed, 
Peace in the chaunt for the tranquil dead, 

The buried and the crowned. 



And ever rose on the swelling breeze, 
From hamlets poor and palaces, 

Cities and lonely ways, 
Pealing through all earth's pulses strong, 
Like the roar of ocean turned to song, 

A hymn of lofty praise. 

And Death, with light and loving hand, 
Marshalled with smiles his radiant band 

Into a higher sphere, 
Even as a shepherd kind and old 
Calleth at night his flock to fold, 

With strains of music clear. 

Thus dreamt I through the live-long night, 
Till the freshened breeze of morning bright, 

Sleep from my eyelids shook ; 
And then with thoughts where joy held sway, 
And longings bright — my musing way 

Back to the world I took. 



MRS. HEMANS 

Is the most generally admired of all English female poets, and 
deservedly so. She was born at Liverpool in 1794. Her maiden name 
was Felicia Dorothea Browne, her father being a native of Ireland, and 
her mother of Germany, though of Venetian descent, to which com- 
bination of blood she was accustomed playfully to ascribe her imagina- 
tive tendencies. She was in childhood extremely lovely, a charm she 
did not lose in riper years ; and from an early age she manifested those 
lively sensibilities and poetical tastes which have been so fruitful of 
excellence. Happily for the cultivation of her genius, her father, when 
she was not five years old, removed with his family to a wild residence 
(Grywch) on the sea-shore, near Abergele, Denbighshire, in North 
Wales. Here she eagerly gathered the romantic legends of the people, 
and used to study her Shakspeare perched among the boughs of a 
favourite tree, that she might be free from interruption. The influence 
of these early scenes and habits may be seen upon her latest produc- 
tions. She was indefatigably studious, and thus acquired that classical 
taste which, in the editor's judgment, gave a charm to her writings not 
equalled by the German air which she rather affected after the revival 
of her fondness for the study of German authors. As early as 1808, a 
volume of poems, written, some of them, at eight years of age, and in 
1812another, The Domestic Affections, were published; but unadvisedly, 
as they had no marks of talent, except that happy choice of subjects 
and remarkable felicity of numbers which characterized her through- 
out her career. In 1812, she was married to Captain Hemans of the 
British army ; but the union was not happy, and his health, shattered 
by the hardships of the retreat on Corunna, requiring his residence in 
Italy, they were separated shortly before the birth of her fifth son. 

Mrs. Hemans continued to reside with her widowed mother and 
affectionate sister at St. Asaphs, finding occupation for her heart and 
mind in the care of her boys, to whom she often tenderly alludes. Con- 
tinuing her well-directed studies, she made at this time many translations 
from the Latin classics, and from modern languages, contributing also a 
series of papers on Foreign Literature to the Edinburgh Magazine. 

(188) 



MRS. HEM ANS, 



189 



Her Restoration of Art to Italy, Modern Greece, The Sceptic, Tales 
and Historic Scenes, were published before 1820. In 1821, her poem, 
Dartmoor, received the prize of the Royal Society of Literature, as did 
her Wallace's Invocation to Bruce, from the Highland Society of 
London ; The Last Constantine and other Poems, with The Vespers 
of Palermo, followed in 1823 ; and the Lays of Many Lands, Records 
of Woman, The Forest Sanctuary, with other smaller pieces, before 
her removal from St. Asaphs, to Wavertree, near Liverpool, in the 
autumn of 1828. In 1830, after a visit to Scotland, where she made 
the acquaintance and gained the admiring friendship of Sir Walter 
Scott, she published her Songs of the Affections; and in the spring of 
1831, she removed with her family to Dublin, whence her remaining 
works were issued, and there she died on the sixteenth of May, 1835. 

The Vespers of Palermo was written at the suggestion of Bishop 
Heber, who wished her to make an experiment in dramatic composition. 
Though not originally intended by her for the stage, it was, through the 
influence of the poet Milman, brought out at Covent Garden, the prin- 
cipal parts being sustained by Young, Charles Kemble, &c. ; but, as 
might have been expected from its want of tragic passion and unity, 
the representation was not successful, though subsequently, at Edin- 
burgh, it was more favourably received, Scott writing the epilogue and 
Mrs. Siddons giving her great powers to its support. It is, in fact, 
though a noble poem, far better adapted to the closet than the stage. 

Mrs. Hemans as a poetical writer is entitled to high admiration. The 
greatest drawback to her fame is her having written so much, more than 
fifty thousand lines having flowed from her pen, among which it would 
be difficult to find one faulty in measure or offensive to taste. She show- 
ered her treasures upon the public in such profusion, that readers became 
surfeited with sweetness, and began to think her pure melody monoto- 
nous, and her affectionate chasteness tame. Had she written less, those 
very qualities would have won for her unqualified applause. She seldom 
reached the sublime, but her thought was often profound, and her nice 
analysis of the best affections, her delicate perception of the minute 
circumstances that awaken and guide the sensibilities, the readiness 
with which she seized upon the noble, the picturesque, the graceful and 
the tender, designate her above every English writer but one as the 
"poet of the heart." Ilex forte lay in the lyric ; nor could she sustain 
herself through a long poem, her pieces of that description being marked 
by fine passages, rather than true epic interest. The Sceptic, hon- 



190 MRS. HE MANS. 

ourably appreciated by the Quarterly Reviewer at the time of its pub- 
lication when her laurels were yet in the bud, lias an occasional Hue 
and loftiness not equalled by her afterwards, and the editor is grateful 
for the salutary influence it had upon his own mind. The Forest Sanc- 
tuary has more romantic beauty and spiritual perception. Several of 
her pieces on the classic model, though not sufficiently seven-, re- 
mind the student of the Greek anthology, more than any others from 
modern pens, some of Bryant's excepted. The Sleeper of Marathon 
and The Spartan March, might pass for translations of newly discov- 
ered ancient relics, not of any known poet, but of one that might 
have existed; they are better than imitations, conceptions in the 
antique. Miss Barrett has struck out at times a fragment of bolder out- 
line, but Mrs. Hemans has wrought her luxuriously draped images into 
a purer and lovelier perfection. Mrs. Hemans is caught by the splen- 
dours of warlike array, and wonders at heroic deeds, but she lias not 
breath for the trumpet, and melts at the sight of blood. It is as woman 
she feels most deeply, and when she writes of woman's history she writer 
under the best inspiration. Yet the homage of the world, of the scholar 
and the child, the young enthusiast and the grave theologian, have been 
freely yielded to her strains on sacred themes. Her brief lyric on 
The Agony in the Garden, has never been equalled by prose or poetry 
on that subject, and the experience of the reader must be different from 
mine, if it has not given him new thoughts, instructive and profit- 
able, concerning the awful, mysterious scene. The " cant of criti- 
cism" is to dwell upon her sameness ; but it should be remem- 
bered that it is the unbroken harmony, unpretending ease, and unfailing 
luxuriance which makes her ever so original, ever so like herself, and, 
with a thousand imitators, yet unreached by imitation. She lias written 
much that will not be often read ; but who, since the dawning of the 
century, has written more that is impressed upon our memory, or 
has given such heartfelt pleasure to all classes of readers, from the 
palace to the cottage in her native land, and from the rich dwellings on 
the seaboard to the farthest log-cottage of our own .' Miss Jevvsbury, 
in her Three Histories, thus describes Mrs. Hemans truthfully, thdtjgh 
with that enthusiasm which all who knew her appear to have shared in : 
"Egeria was totally different from any other woman I had ever seen, 
either in Italy or England. She did not dazzle — she subdued me. 
Other women might be more commanding, more versatile, more acute; 
but I never saw one so exquisitely feminine. She was lovely without 



MRS. HEMANS. 191 

being beautiful; her movements were features ; and if a blind man had 
been privileged to pass his hand over the silken length of hair, that 
when unbraided flowed round her like a veil, he would have been jus- 
tified in expecting softness and a love of softness, beauty and a percep- 
tion of beauty, to be distinctive traits of her mind. Nor would he have 
been deceived. Her birth, her education, but, above all, the genius 
witli which she was gifted, combined to inspire a passion for the ethe- 
real, the tender, the imaginative, the heroic, — in one word, the beau- 
tiful. It was in her a faculty divine, and yet of daily life; — it touched 
all things, but, like a sunbeam, touched them with ' a golden finger.' 
Any thing abstract or scientific was unintelligible and distasteful to her ; 
her knowledge was extensive and various, but, true to the first principle 
of her nature, it was poetry that she sought in history, scenery, cha- 
racter, and religious belief, — poetry that guided all her studies, governed 
all her thoughts, coloured all her conversation. Her nature was at once 
simple and profound ; there was no room in her mind for philosophy, or 
in her heart for ambition, — one was filled by imagination, the other en- 
grossed by tenderness. Her strength and her weakness alike lay in 
her affections : these would sometimes make her weep at a word, — at 
others imbue her with courage ; — so that she was alternately a ' falcon- 
hearted dove,' and ' a reed shaken with the wind.' Her voice was a 
sad, sweet melody, her spirits reminded me of an old poet's description 
of the orange-tree, with its 

« Golden lamps hid in a night of green,' 

or of those Spanish gardens where the pomegranate grows beside the 
cypress. Her gladness was like a burst of sunlight ; and if in her de- 
pression she resembled night, it was night wearing her stars. I might 
describe, and describe for ever, but I should never succeed in portraying 
Egeria ; she was a muse, a grace, a variable child, a dependent woman — 
the Italy of human beings." 

THE EXILE OF THE MOREA. 

(FROM MODERN GREECE.) 

Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, 



Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies 



192 MRS. HE MANS. 

There shall he rest? — Alas! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm, 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, 
Where patriarchs reign'd of old, in pastoral repose. 

Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves, 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, 
Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the slave ! 
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde, 
Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning wild *, 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword 
O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled ; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert gloom, 
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. 

But thou, fair world ! whose fresh unsullied charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave ? 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, 
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last ? 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath been. 

There, by some lake, whose blue expansive breast 

Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams, 

Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dressed 

In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams ; 

Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours 



MRS. HEMANS. 193 

Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. 
The exiled Greek hath lixed his sylvan home : 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman's feet. 

The forests are around him in their pride, 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 
And isles of flowers, bright floating o'er the tide, 
That images the fairy worlds it laves, 
And stillness, and luxuriance — o'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers, 
And from those green arcades a thousand tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature's temple 
moans. 

And there, no traces left by brighter days, 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief, 
Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, 
The lone memorial of an Indian chief. 
There man not yet hath marked the boundless plain 
With marble records of his fame and power; 
The forest is his everlasting fane, 
The palm his monument, the rock his tower. 
Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree, 
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. 

But doth the exile's heart serenely there 
In sunshine dwell? — Ah! when was exile blest? 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest ? 
— There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, 
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, 
17 N 



194 MRS. HE MANS. 

And shrines itself in mental solitude, 
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe, 
That coldly smiles 'midst pleasures brightest ray, 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. 



THE HOPELESSNESS OF UNBELIEF. 

(FROM THE SCEPTIC.) 

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above ' 

Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? 

To nurse such feelings as delight to rest, 

Within that hallowed shrine — a parent's breast, 

To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, 

On one frail Idol — destined but to die; 

Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, 

Where severed souls, made perfect, re-unite ? 

Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, 

Twined with a life a moment may destroy ! 

If there be sorrow in a parting tear, 

Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear ! 

If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 

Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis gone ! 

Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody and live; 
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, 
Think on that dread "for ever'''' — and despair! 



MRS. HEMANS. 195 

And oh ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky — 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, 
And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! 
Yes ! ere a sound, a sign announce thy fate, 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempest and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer air with latent power, 
He hides his venom in the scented flower, 
He steals upon thee in the Zephyr's breath, 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! 

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, 
And vainly hope the tree of life to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind ? 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well 
It wished not in a brighter sphere to dwell, 
Become a desert now, a vale of gloom, 
O'ershadowed with the midnight of the tomb ? 
Where shalt thou turn ? — it is not thine to raise 
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze, 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast ; 
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if when slumber's lonely couch is prest, 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest, 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this; 
Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 



196 MRS. HEMANS. 

THE WEAKNESS OF UNBELIEF. 
(from the same.) 
But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride ? 
In thine own strength unaided to defy, 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? 
Torn by the vulture fettered to the rock, 
Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? 
Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain's brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below, 
Yet not the less be shattered on its height, 
By one dread moment of the earthquake's might ! 
A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, 
In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn, 
Till comes the one, the master anguish, sent 
To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. 

Oh ! what is nature's strength ? the vacant eye, 

By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! 

The wild delirious laughter of despair, 

The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there! 

Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, 

Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 

They tell thee, Reason wandering from the ray 

Of Faith the blazing pillar of her way, 

In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave, 

Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 

Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains, 

Strewed with the wrecks of grandeur — mouldering fanes, 

Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, 

And regal cities now the serpent's own : 

Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind, 

Whose star is quenched, hath lessons for mankind, 

Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, 

Mingling its marble with the dust of Roma 



MRS. HEMANS. 197 

PRAYER FOR STRENGTH. 

(FROM the same.) 

O Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! — Thou whose ways 

Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, 

Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, 

Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, 

And countless ages, trampling into clay 

Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ; 

Father of worlds unknown, unnumbered! — Thou, 

With whom all time is one eternal now, 

Who know'st no past, nor future — Thou whose breath 

Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death ! 

Look on us, guide us ! — wanderers of a sea 

Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ? 

A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, 

A star may set — and we are lost in night ; 

A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 

A treacherous song allure us — and we sink ! 

Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And Heaven and Earth disdained not to ally 
By that dread union — Man with Deity ; 
Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish ! — let thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe — the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passion — speak once more 
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, 
" Here shall thy waves be stayed" — in grief, in pain, 
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain, 
Thou, by whom suns are balanced ! — thus secure 
In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure ; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 
17* 



198 MRS. HEMANS. 

And, by affliction guided to thy shrine, 

The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. 

And oh ! be near, when clothed with conquering power, 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour ; 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss, 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, 
Awe-stiuck alike the timid and the brave, 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, 
Must drink the cup of trembling — when we see 
Nought in the universe but death and Thee, 
Forsake us not ; — if still, when life was young, 
Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, 
Father, forsake us not ! — when tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge, 
When from Thy justice to Thy love we fly, 
On Nature's conflict look with pitying eye, 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper — peace ! 

For oh ! 't is awful — He that hath beheld 

The parting spirit, by its fears repelPd, 

Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, 

And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; 

He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 

Dissolve the union form'd and closed in woe, 

Well knows that hour is awful. — In the pride 

Of youth and health, by suffering yet untried, 

We talk of Death, as something, which 't were sweet, 

In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, 

A closing triumph, a majestic scene, 

Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, 

As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, 

He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 199 

Hush, fond enthusiast! — still, obscure, and lone, 
Yet not less terrible because unknown, 
Is the last hour of thousands — they retire 
From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire ; 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares, 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! 
Such is man's doom — and ere an hour be flown, 
— Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine own. 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

But for the promise, all shall yet be well, 

Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel, 

Beneath such clouds as darken'd, when the hand 

Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land ; 

And thou, just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, 

Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness, 

With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 

O England's flower ! wert gather'd to the dead ? 

But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart, 

Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! 

When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, 

When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child, 

Yearn'd with vain longing — still thy patient eye, 

To its last light, beam'd holy constancy ! 

Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, 

Amidst those agonies — thy first and last, 

Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, 

Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; 

While bow'd thy royal head to Him, whose power 

Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, 



200 MRS. HEMANS. 

Who from the brightest vision of a throne, 
Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own, 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, 
As blasted Israel, when her Ark was lost. 

" It is the will of God !" — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career; 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, 
But for that thought — " It is the will of God !" 
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree, 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? 
Oh ! still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, 
Hallow'd by freedom, and enshrined in song ! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell, 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care, 
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 



a mother's love. 

FROM THE SIEGE OF V A L EN CIA., 

Elm. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and gentle words, 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 't is mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled! — There is none, 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path, 



MRS. HEMANS. 201 

But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength erelong 
Shall bear his trophies well. — And this is love ! 
This is marCs love ! — What marvel ? — you ne'er made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings 
His fair cheek rose and fell ! and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath ! — You ne'er kept watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weary eye ; yet yours the face 
Which, early faded through fond care for him, 
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, 
Was there to greet his wak'ning ! You ne'er smooth'd 
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 
Had learn'd soft utterance ; press'd your lips to his, 
When lever parch'd it ; hush'd his wayward cries, 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
No ! these are woman's tasks ! — In these her youth, 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmark'd ! — My boys ! my boys ! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this ? 
— Why were ye given me ? 



a mother's courage. 

(from the same.) 
Elm. Think'st thou there dwells no courage but in breasts 
That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck clown ? Thou little know'st 
Of nature's marvels. Chief, my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior men, 
Ay, they that master death by held or flood, 
Would look on, ere they braved ! — I have no thought, 



202 MRS. HEMANS. 

No sense of fear ! Thou 'rt mighty ! but a soul 
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling pour'd through all its depths, 
Than monarchs with their hosts ! Am I not come 
To die with these my children ? 



FORTITUDE MORE THAN BRAVERY. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Her. (with solemnity). If to plunge 

In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards ; and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark, 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows ; 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! But there are things 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage temper'd with a holier fire ! 
Well may'st thou say that these are fearful times, 
Therefore be firm, be patient! — There is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, 
When red swords meet in lightning ! — But our task 
Is more and nobler ! — We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 
And to defend an altar! — If we fall, 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith ! — Think but on this, 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 
Suffering, yet hoping all things — Fare ye well. 



MRS. HEMANS. 203 

DEATH BETTER THAN SHAME. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Her. Let them die ! 

Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls ? — Thou think'st it much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 
Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness, 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the naming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful, 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 
— Ay, fear them, fear the loved ! — Had I but wept 
O'er my son's grave, or o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young verdure, i" might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

DEATH IN BEAUTY. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Elm. My child !— What dream 

Ts on thy soul ? — Even now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 

Xim. Death's ! 

Elm. Away ! 

Thine eye hath starry clearness ; and thy cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
T^an tinored its earliest flower! 



204 MRS. HE MANS. 

Xim. It well may be ! 

There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Elm. Nay, speak not thus ! 

There 's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Were 't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and shrines 
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien ! — Oil no ! this is not death ! 

Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our chain, 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer ? — He hath many forms, 
They should not all be fearful ! — If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst, 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, 
Solemn, yet lovely ? — Mother, I depart ! — 
Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 



THE REFUGEE IN THE FOREST AND HIS BOY. 

(FROM THE FOREST SANCTUARY.) 

A blighted name ! — I hear the winds of morn — 
Their sounds are not of this ! — I hear the shiver 
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver : 
Their sounds are not of this ! — the cedars, waving, 
Lend it no tone : His wide savannahs laving, 
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river! 



MRS. HEMANS. 205 

What part hath mortal name, where God alone 
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known ? 

Is it not much that I may worship Him, 
With nought my spirit's breathings to control, 
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cat'racts ? — Shall I not rejoice 
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice 
From man's ? — I v/ill rejoice! — my soaring soul 
Now hath redeem'd her birthright of the day, 
And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way ! 

And thou, my boy ! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes 
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise ; 
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, 
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise ! 
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air ? 



THE PERSECUTED. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Thou Searcher of the soul ! in whose dread sight 
Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, 
But the scarce-owned, unwhisper'd thought of night, 
As a tiling written with the sunbeam lies ; 
Thou know'st — whose eye through shade and depth can see, 
That this man's crime was but to worship thee, 
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, 
The call'd of yore — wont by the Saviour's side 
On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide. 
18 



'206 MRS. HEMANS. 

For the strong spirit will at times awake, 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode ; 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oracles of God; 
And even for this — O dust, whose mask is power ! 
Reed, that would'st be a scourge thy little hour ! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, 
And therefore thou destroyest ! — •where were flown 
Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree alone ? 

FREEDOM OF SPEECH. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

It is a weary and a bitter task 
Back from the lip the burning word to keep, 
And to shut out heaven's air with falsehood's mask, 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings — making e'en of thought 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad — and night — and sleep. 
I might not brook it long — and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. 

THE ROMAN CATHOLIC WIFE. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance — 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirr'd) — 
A flush — a fading of the cheek, perchance — 
A word — less, less — the cadence of a word, 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath, 
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with death ! 
— Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. — I knew that in thy sight 
I stood — howe'er beloved — a recreant from the light. 



MRS. HEMANS. 207 

Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
Oh ! the deep soul it breathed ! — the love, the woe, 
The fervour, pour'd in that full gush of song, 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all her vesper-voices, o'er the main, 
Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow. 
— " Jive sanctisslma /" — how oft that lay 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr-strength away 

Ave, sanctissima! 
'T is nightfall on the sea ; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee ! 

Watch us, while shadows lie 

O'er the dim waters spread ; 
Hear the heart's lonely sigh — 

Thine too hath bled ! 

Thou that hast look'd on death, 

Aid us when death is near ! 
Whisper of heaven to faith ; 

Sweet Mother, hear ! 

Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our sleep, 

Ora, Mater, ora ! 
Thou star of the deep ! 

" Ora pro nobis Mater .'" — What a spell 
Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying 
On the flush'd waters — seem'd they not to swell 
From the far dust, wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword ? — Oh ! yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear ! 



208 MRS. HEMANS. 

" Ora" — with all the purple waves replying, 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
And 1 had thought it much to bear the rack and chain ! 



DEATH AND BURIAL AT SEA. 

(FROM the SAME. J 

Yes ! as if Heaven upon the waves were sleeping, 
Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay, 
All moveless through their blue transparence keeping 
The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; 
While she — oh! strongest is the strong heart's woe — 
And yet I live! I feel the sunshine's glow — 
And I am he that looked, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adored too much ! 
— It is a fearful thing to love what death may touch. 

A fearful thing that love and death may dwell 
In the same world ! — She faded on — and I — 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
My trusting soul that she could fade to die ! 
Yet, ere she parted, I had marked a change, 

— But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, though strange: 
Something of gladness in the melody 

Of her low voice, and in her words a flight 
Of airy thought — alas! too perilously bright! 

And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all wondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 

— How could it thus deceive me? — she had worn 
Around her, like the dewy mists of morn, 

A pensive tenderness through happiest days, 
And a soft world of dreams had seemed to lie 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. 



MRS. HEMANS. 209 

And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she died, 
She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! 
— The day was melting from the waters wide, 
And through its long hright hours her thoughts had been, 
It seemed, with restless and unwonted yearning, 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turning ; 
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene, 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath — 
Oh ! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death ! 

And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, 
In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung; 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The " Rio verdef on her soul that hung, 
And thence flowed forth. — But now the sun was low, 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft " Ora, mater /" — and the sound 
Was even like love's farewell — so mournfully profound. 

The boy had dropped to slumber at our feet ; — 
" And I have lulled him to his smiling rest 
Once more !" she said : — I raised him — it was sweet, 
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which blessed 
His look that hour; — for now her voice grew weak; 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek, 
With her white lips a long, long kiss she pressed, 
Yet light, to wake him not. — Then sank her head 
Against my bursting heart — What did I clasp ? — the dead ! 

I called — to call what answers not our cries — 
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard, 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, 
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirred, 
And in the quenched eye's fixedness to gaze, 
All vainly searching for the parted rays ; 
18* o 



210 MRS. HE MANS. 

This is what waits us! — Dead! — with that chill word 
To link our bosom-names !- — For this we pour 
Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 

But the true parting came ! — I looked my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face ; 
How could I think the lovely spirit passed, 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? 
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — ■ 
N"o ! not like sleep to look upon art Thou, 
Death, death ! — she lay, a thing for earth's embrace, 
To cover with spring-wreaths. — For earth's ? — the wave 
That gives the bier no flowers — makes moan above her 
grave ! 

On the mid-seas a knell ! — for man was there, 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead! 
A long low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread, 
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high, 
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky, 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red; — ■ 
Were these things round me ? — Such o'er memory sweep 
Wildly when aught brings back that burial of the deep. 

Then the broad lonely sunrise! — and the plash 
Into the sounding waves ! around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash, 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more, 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! — No mark the proud seas keep, 
To show where he that wept may pause again to weep. 



MRS. HEMANS. 211 

So the depths took thee! — Oh! the sullen sense 

Of desolation in that hour compressed ! 

Dust going down, a speck amidst th' immense 

And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 

The trace a weed might leave there ! — ■ Dust ! — the 

thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possessed, 
Thus sinking ! — Love, joy, fear, all crushed to this — 
And the wide Heaven so far — so fathomless th' abyss ! 

Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low, 
What shall wake thence the dead ? — Blest, blest are they 
That earth to earth entrust; for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's clay 
Shall rise at last, and bid the young flowers bloom, 
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb, 
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! 
But thou, what cave hath dimly chambered thee f 
Vain dreams ! — oh ! art thou not where there is no 
more sea ? 

The wind rose free and singing : — when for ever, 
O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour 
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind ! — Before our prow 
The white foam flashed — ay, joyously — and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 
Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart, 
And thy meek sorrowing love — oh ! where could that 
depart ? 



212 MRS. HEMANS. 

TYRANNY WORKING OUT FREEDOM. 

(FROM THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.) 

Pro. I call upon thee now ! The land's high soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains, 
The peasant dreams of freedom! — Ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. — No praise be hers 
For what she blindly works. — When slavery's cup 
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters — and they shall be burst! 
I have hoped, when hope seemed frenzy ; but a power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswerving energy on one great aim, 
To make and rule its fortunes ! — 1 have been 
A wanderer in the fulness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, 
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, 
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: 
But we must give the signal. .Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye 
Is on our hearts — whose righteous arm befriends 
The arm that strikes for freedom — speak ! decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 



MRS. HEMANS. 213 

THE JOY OF BATTLE. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

— Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad, 
It burns upon the air! — The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam 
Of battle's roaring billows ! — On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 't is the flash, 
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze 
Of helmets in the sun ! — The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorying shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane 
As a triumphant banner ! — Such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 

(TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.) 

Oh, worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 

Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright ! 
To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, 

Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might 
Ev'n now of love and war he dreams in vain, 
Doomed with his blood thy gelid wave to stain. 

Let the red Dog-star burn! — his scorching beam, 
Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee ! 

Still sheltered from his rage, thy banks, fair stream, 
To the wild flock around thee wandering free, 

And the tired oxen from the furrowed field ; 

The genial freshness of their breath shall yield. 



214 MRS. HEMANS. 

And thou, bright Fount! ennobled and renowned, 
Shall by thy poet's votive song be made ; 

Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crowned, 
Whose boughs, a pendent canopy, o'ershade 

Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale, 

Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale. 

THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 

I lay upon the solemn plain, 

And by the funeral mound, 
Where those who died not there in vain 

Their place of sleep had found. 

'T was silent where the free blood gush'd 
When Persia came array 'd — 

So many a voice had there been hush'd, 
So many a foot-step stay'd. 

I slumber'd on the lonely spot 

So sanctified by death : 
I slumber'd — but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, 
They rose — the chainless dead — 

All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power, 
Up from their grassy bed. 

I saw their spears, on that red field, 
Flash as in time gone by — 

Chased to the seas without his shield, 
I saw the Persian fly. 

I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 

Call'd to another fight — ■ 
From visions of our glorious past, 

Who doth not wake in might ? 



MRS. HEMANS. 215 



THE SPARTANS' MARCH. 

"The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle," says 
Thuoydides, " because they wished not to excite the rage of their war- 
riors. Their charging-step was made to the 'Dorian mood of flutes and 
soft recorders.' The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to 
require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too 
proud for the spur.'' — Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks. 

'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, 

Where peasants dress'd the vines ; 
Sunlight was on Cithaeron's rills, 

Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wander'd by, 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

Of solemn harmony. 

Was it the hunters' choral strain 

To the woodland-goddess pour'd ? 
Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 

Strike the full sounding chord ? 

But helms were glancing on the stream, 

Spears ranged in close array, 
And shields flung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day ! 

And the mountain-echoes of the land 

Swell'd through the deep-blue sky ; 
While to soft strains moved forth a band 

Of men that moved to die. 

They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, 

Nor bade the horn peal out, 
And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd, 

Rung with no battle shout ! 



216 MRS. HEMANS. 

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire 
Their souls with an impulse high ; 

But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 
For the sons of liberty ! 

And still sweet flutes, their path around 
Sent forth iEolian breath ; 

They needed not a sterner sound 
To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return, 
Save bearing back the Spartan shield, 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



THE URN AND THE SWORD. 

They sought for treasures in the tomb, 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead. 

They scatter'd far the greensward heap, 
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd ; 
— What found they in the home of sleep ? — 
A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearts and shrines were free ; 
A sword, whose work was proudly done 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

And these are treasures ! — undismay'd, 
Still for the suffering land we trust, 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid, 
With freedom's sword, and valour's dust. 



MRS. HEMANS. 217 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird 
that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger 
which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings 
them news from the other world. — See Picart's Ceremonies and Reli- 
gious Customs'] 

Thou art come from the spirits 1 land, thou bird ! 

Thou art come from the spirit's land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, 

And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer shore, 
And we know that the friends we have lost are there, 

They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fever's thirst 
From the Fountain of youth ere now,* 

For there must the stream in its freshness burst 
Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 

From the land of deathless flowers, 
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 

Though their hearts were once with ours: 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 



* An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, 
in the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, 
believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo 
Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in 
its waters — See Robertson's History of America. 
19 



218 MRS. HEMANS. 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget ! 
We call — and they answer not again — 

Do the) r love — do they love us yet ? 

Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 
And the father of his child ? 

And the chief, of those that were wont to share 
His wandering through the wild ? 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still ? 



A DIRGE. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit ! rest thee now, 

Even while with us thy footstep trod, 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul to its place on high ! — 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 

But oh ! — a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven is now thine own. 



MRS. HEMANS. 219 



FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral 
service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace the 
deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu.— 
See Christian Researches in the Mediterranean.'] 

" 'T is hard to lay into the earth 

A countenance so benign ! a form that walk'd 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth!" — Wilson. 

Come near! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near! — once more let kindred lips be press'd 
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd — 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seem'd to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless'd 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die? — 
But not where death has power may love be bless'd — 
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest! 



220 MRS. HE MANS. 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? 
The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain, 

The lovely must depart! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early call'd to rest ! 

Look on him ! is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase ? — ■ 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face; 

Yet that, even that must fade ! 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest ! — 
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace 

At the gay bridal feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast ; 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest ! 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirit's light is quench'd ! — for him the past 
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast 

His birth-right's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd — 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest! 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells ? 

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ! — 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells, 

Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain ! ■ 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! 
We ask not such from thee. 



MRS. HEMANS. 221 

Yet more, the depths have more ! — what wealth untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies ! — 

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more! — thy waves have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play ! 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more .' 
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 

They hear but now the booming waters roar, 
The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — 

Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long ! 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — • 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown ; 

Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead ! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — 
Restore the dead, thou sea! 
19 * 



222 MRS. HEMANS. 

BRING FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreath the cup ere the wine is poured : 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale : 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale ; 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path — 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ! 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day — 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's Avay ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell, 

They have tales of the joyous woods to tell; 

Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 

And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 

They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 

And the dream of his youth — bring him flowers, wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side — 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 
A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love's last gift — bring ye flowers, pale flowers ! 



MRS. HEM AN S. 22.3 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, 

They are nature's offering, their place is there '. 

They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 

With a voice of promise they come and part, 

They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 

They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers ! 

THE REVELLERS. 

Ring, joyous chord! — ring out again! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here — the fair face and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 

— But I met a dimly mournful glance, 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh, 

In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 

And it is not well that woe should breathe 

— Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — but who art thou 
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 
—Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too well ! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our song for thee — 
— Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! 

— But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 



224 MRS. HEMANS. 

A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there 's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ? 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! 
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth — 
— Back to thy silent hearth! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring forth again 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain! 
— But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 
And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine, 
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, 
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, 
1 know thee! — it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee! — thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! 
There 's a tone in her voice which thou fain would'st shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — away! — 
Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — ring out again! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain! 
And bring fresh wreaths! — >we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 
On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! — 
But where are the young and the lovely ? — gone ! 
Where are the brows with the Red Cross crowned, 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? 



MRS. HEMANS. 225 

And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet? — 
They are gone — they are (led — they are parted all — 
Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. 

Sleep 'midst thy banners furled! 
Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world! 
Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast — 
Oh ! strong is night — for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smoothed thy brow, 
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, 
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers! — now the field is won, 
Break not the rest of Nature's weary son ! 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring, 
And all the windings of thy native stream- — 
Why, this were joy! — upon the tented plain, 
Dream on, thou Conqueror ! — be a child again ; 

But thou wilt wake at morn, 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, 
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'ersweeping ; 
So wilt thou rise, oh ! thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee- -the tired one, slumbering there! 
P 



226 MRS. HEMANS. 

Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine ! — and man must kneel before thee, 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee ! 
Shalt thou be stayed because thy brother weeps ? — 
Wake ! and forget that 'midst a dreaming world, 
Thou hast lain thus with all thy banners furled ! 

Forget that thou, even thou, 
Hast feebly shivered when the wind passed o'er thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, 
And felt the night-dew chill thy fevered brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on ! 
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 

" Sing aloud 

Old songs, the precious music of the heart." — Wordsworth. 



Sing them upon the sunny hills, 

When days are long and bright, 
And the blue gleam of shining rills 

Is loveliest to the sight! 
Sing them along the misty moor, 

Where ancient hunters roved, 
And swell them through the torrent's roar, 

The songs our fathers loved ! 

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 

When harps were in the hall, 
And each proud note made lance and spear 

Thrill on the bannered Avail : 
The songs that through our valleys green, 

Sent on from age to age, 
Like his own river's voice, have been 

The peasant's heritage. 











MRS. HEMAN S. ; 


121 




The reaper sings them when the vale 






Is filled with plumy sheaves ; 






The woodman, by the starlight pale, 






Cheered homeward through the leaves : 






And unto them the glancing oars 






A joyous measure keep, 






Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 






Dash back the foaming deep. 






So let it be! — a light they shed 






O'er each old fount and grove; 






A memory of the gentle dead, 






A lingering spell of love. 






Murmuring the names of mighty men, 






They bid our streams roll on, 






And link high thoughts to every glen 






Where valiant deeds were done. 






Teach them your children round the hearth, 






When evening fires burn clear, 






And in the fields of harvest mirth, 






And on the hills of deer : 






So shall each unforgotten word, 






When far those loved ones roam, 






Call back the hearts which once it stirred, 






To childhood's holy home. 






The green woods of their native land 






Shall whisper in the strain, 






The voices of their household band 






Shall breathe their names again ; 






The heathery heights in vision rise 






Where, like the stag, they roved — 






Sing to your sons those melodies, 






The songs your fathers loved ! 





228 MRS. HEMANS. 

KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night, 
The wind that, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part, 
And watched through sickness by thy bed,- 

Call his a kindred heart! 



MRS. HEMANS. 229 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend, 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, 

With the same breeze that bend, 
For that full bliss of thought allied, 

Never to mortals given, — 
Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto Heaven. 

CASABIANC A.* 

The boy stood on the burning deck 

Whence all but he had fled; 
The flame that lit the battle's wrecu, 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As bora to rule the storm; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his Father's word; 
That Father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud : — " Say, Father, say 

If yet my task is done ?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, Father !" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone !" 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

* Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral 
of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the 
ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished 
in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. 

20 



230 MRS. HEMANS. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death, 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 
"My Father! must I stay?" 

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child, 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound — 
The boy — oh ! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part — 

But the noblest thing which perished tnere 
Was that young faithful heart! 



MRS. HEMANS. 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 



231 



The rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain, 

When a young mother with her first-born thence 

Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed 

Unto the Temple-service; — by the hand 

She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 

Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 

That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, 

To bring before her God. So passed they on, 

O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 

Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 

Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs, 

With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue 

Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest ; 

Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 

That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch 

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 

As at a red flower's heart. — And where a fount 

Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades, 

Making its banks green gems along the wild, 

There too she lingered, from the diamond wave 

Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 

And softly parting clusters of jet curls 

To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reached, 

The Earth's One Sanctuary — and rapture hushed 

Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped 

In light, like floating gold. But when that hour 

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 

Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear 

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm 

Clung as the ivy clings — the deep spring-tide 

Of Nature then swelled high, and o'er her child 



232 MRS. HEMANS. 

Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. — " Alas," she cried, 

" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me ; 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart ? 

" How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side ? 

And I, in joyous pride, 
By every place of flowers my course delaying 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair! 

" And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turned from its door away ? 
While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill ? 

" Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, 
As 'midst the silence of the stars 1 wake, 

And watch for thy clear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed ? 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, 

A cry which none shall hear ? 



MRS. HEMANS. 233 

" What have I said, my child ? — Will He not hear thee, 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ? 

Shall He not guard thy rest, 
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ? 

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy! 

" I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, 
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And precious as thou art, 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! — I go, my soul may fail me. 
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks — 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell. 

The Rock of Strength. — Farewell !" 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun 

Had pealed along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand, 

Before the raging blast, 
Had vailed her topsails to the sand, 

And bowed her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her — 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 
Like floating gossamer. 
20* 



234 MRS. HEMANS. 

We saw her proud flag struck that morn, 
A star once o'er the seas — 

Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 
And sadder things than these. 

We saw her treasures cast away — 

The rocks with pearls were sown, 
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze — 
And gorgeous robes — but oh! that shore 

Had sadder things than these' 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crushed reed thrown aside — 
Yet by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept, 
But well our gushing hearts might say, 

That there a mother slept! 

For her pale arms a babe had prest, 

With such a wreathing grasp, 
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers clung, 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, 
Gleamed up the boy's dead face, 

Like Slumber's, trustingly serene, 
In melancholy grace. 



MRS. HEMANS. 235 

Deep in her bosom lay his head, 

With half-shut violet eye — 
He had known little of her dread, 

Nought of her agony ! 

Oh ! human Love, whose yearning heart, 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot, 

There is some home for thee, 
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 

The moaning of the sea! 

THE TRUMPET. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 

Light up the beacon pyre! 
— A hundred hills have seen the brand 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And hark ! — ■ was that the sound of seas ? 

— A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 
The falchion to his side; 



236 MRS. HEMANS. 

E'en for the marriage altar crowned, 
The lover quits his bride. 

And all this haste, and change, and fear, 
By earthly clarion spread ! — 

How will it be when kingdoms hear 
The blast that wakes the dead? 



EVENING PRAYER, 
AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 

" Now in thy youth, beseech of Him, 
Who giveth, upbraiding not; 
That his light in thy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be, 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Bernard Barton. 

Hush! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room 
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, 

With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, 

And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. 

Gaze on — 't is lovely ! — Childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? — 

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

O ! joyous creature ! that will sink to rest ! 

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 
Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 



MRS. HEMANS. 237 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs 
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, 

Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep 

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 

And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, 

And to bewail that worship — ■ therefore pray ! 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And, oh ! to love through all things — therefore pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 

Earth will forsake — O ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

" II est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a l'idee meme qu'on redoute." 

Corinne. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



238 MRS. HEMANS. 

Day is for mortal care, 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer - 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, 
Jts feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When Summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain- 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ! 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home. 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 



Alfieri. 



MRS. HEMANS. 239 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

" Pregar, pregar, pregar, 
Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati ?" 

Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away; 
Mother with thine earnest eye, 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Call'd thy harvest work to leave, 
Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
Far from thine own household band; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
Sailor on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain; 



240 MRS. HEMANS. 

Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first-star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



THE DREAMER. 

"Thou hast been called, Sleep! the friend of woe, 
But 'tis the happy who have called thee so." — Southet. 

Peace to thy dreams! — thou art slumbering now, 

The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow ; 

All the deep love that o'erfiows thy breast 

Lies 'midst the hush of thy heart at rest, 

Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 

When eve through the woodlands hath sighed farewell. 

Peace! — the sad memories that through the day 
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, 
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 
That bowed thee as winds bow the willow's head, 
The yearnings for faces and voices gone — 
All are forgotten ! — Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten ? — It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 
Tremblest thou, Dreamer? — O love and grief! 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up leaf! 

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 

As on a lyre ere its chords are still; 

On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, 

There 's a large tear gathering heavily ; 

A rain from the clouds of thy spirit pressed — ■ 

Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest! 



MRS. HE MANS. 241 

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours, 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perished flowers. — 
Oh ! we bear within us mysterious things ; 
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathomed springs ; 
And Passion — those gulfs of the heart to fill 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 
Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 
Well might we look on our souls in fear, 
They find no fount of oblivion here ! 
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 
How know we if under the wings of death ? 

THE WINGS OF A DOVE. 

"Oh! that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and he 
at rest." — Psalm lv. 

Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove ! 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast ; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird ? 

In what rich leafy glooms, 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred ? 

Over what blessed home, 
What roof with dark, deep Summer foliage crowned, 

O ! fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine, 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 
21 Q 



242 MRS. HEMANS. 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art! 

Unto the greenwood spray, 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove! 

Oh ! to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroyed — 
Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky . 

Wild wish, and longing vain, 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! 

Go to thy woodland reign : 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, unknown 

And burning woman's tears, 
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong chords of love 
Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet once more. 



r™ 



MRS. HE MANS. 243 

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS.' 

I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When Spring's young voice awakes the flowers ; 

For we have wandered far and free 

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go; but when you pause to hear, 

From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell 
On summer-winds float silvery clear, 

Think on me then — I loved it well ! 

Forget me not around your hearth, 

When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze, 
For dear hath been its evening mirth 

To me, sweet friends, in other days. 

And oh ! when music's voice is heard 

To melt in strains of parting woe, 
When hearts to love and grief are stirred, 

Think of me then ! — I go, I go ! 

TO A CHILD ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Thou wakest from rosy sleep to play 

With bounding heart, my boy! 
Before thee lies a long bright day 

Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 

To cloud thy fearless eye; 
Long be it thus — life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings, 
Now in thy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought springs ! 



244 MRS. HE MANS. 

So, in the onward vale of tears, 
Where'er thy path may be, 

When strength hath bowed to evil years, 
He will remember thee ! 



SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, 

For ever and the same ! 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, 

Those thunders nought can tame. 

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone, 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore 

Along the wave, is still; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone, 
And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured, 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free, 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, 

Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep, 

Through many an olden clime, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 



MRS. HEMANS. 245 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound, 

E'en as when first it rolled. 



Let there be silence, deep and strange, 

Where spectred cities rose ! 
Thou speak'st of one who doth not change — 

— So may our hearts repose. 

DEATH OF THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER. 

" Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side, 
And the hunter's hearth away; 
From the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 
Daughter! thou canst not stay. 

"Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 
Where the skies are ever clear; 
The corn month's golden hours will come, 
But they shall not find thee here. 

" And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 
Under our whispering pine; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard, 
But not a song like thine. 

"A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 
Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 
A farewell in its tone. 
21* 



246 MRS. HEMANS. 

" But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 
Where farewell sounds are o'er; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see 
No fear of parting more. 

" The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 
And the wind's wild moanings by, 
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 
'Midst flowers — not such as die. 

"The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 
The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt 
Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

" Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 
When thou, its light, art fled : 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 
Unto the happy dead. 

" And we will follow thee, our guide ! 
And join that shining band; 
Thou 'rt passing from the lake's green side — 
Go to the better land !" 

The song had ceased — the listeners caught no breath, 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

" Where 's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ?" — Marmion. 

The stately Homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand ! 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land. 



MRS. HEMANS. 247 

The deer across their greensward bound, 

Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry Homes of England! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light! 
There woman's voice flows forth in song. 

Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn, 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The Cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves, 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair Homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall ! 



248 MRS. HEMANS. 

And green for ever be the groves, 
And bright the flowery sod, 

Where first the child's glad spirit loves 
Its country and its God! 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

"Look now abroad — another race has filled 

Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled; 

The land is lull of harvests and green meads.'' — Bryant. 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 

Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea : 
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 

To the anthem of the free ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 249 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trode, 
They have left unstained, what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 



THE PALM TREE. 

It waved not through an eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fanned by southern breeze 
In some green isle of Indian seas ; 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

* This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les 
Jardins. 



250 MRS. HEMANS. 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould, 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange looked it there! — the willow streamed 
Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 
The lime bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the desert's tree, 
And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers : 
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colour flung, 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng, 
Seemed reckless of all dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms : 
He passed the pale green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came, 
Then shot a rapture through his frame! 



MRS. HEMANS. 251 

To him, to him its rustling spoke, 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whispered of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin home, that lay- 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar — 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; 
All through his wakening bosom swept — 
He clasped his country's tree and wept! 

Oh, scorn him not! — the strength whereby 
The patriot girds himself to die, 
Th' unconquerable power which fills 
The freeman battling on his hills — 
These have one fountain deep and clear — 
The same whence gushed that childlike tear 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 

There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 

Joy's visits when most brief. 

Bernard Bahtow. 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 

On the banks of moss where thy childhood played ; 

By the household tree through which thine eye 

First looked in love to the summer-sky ; 

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 

Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 

Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 

Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! 



252 MRS. HEMANS. 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream ; 
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves, 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes, 
By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 
When twilight called unto household mirth ; 
By the fairy tale or the legend old 
In that ring of happy faces told ; 
By the quiet hour when hearts unite 
In the parting prayer and the kind " Good-night ;" 
By the smiling eye and the loving tone, 
Over thy life has a spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain battles of his land; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas, 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall, 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 

From the pure first loves of its youth away ; 

When the sullying breath of the world would come 

O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home ; 

Think thou again of the woody glade, 

And the sound by the rustling ivy made, 

Think of the tree at thy father's door, 

And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 253 



THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 

They grew in beauty, side by side, 
They filled one house with glee — 

Their graves are severed far and wide, 
By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sight — 
Where are those dreamers now ? 

One, 'midst the forests of the West, 
By a dark stream is laid — 

The Indian knows his place of rest, 
Far in the cedar shade. 

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, 
He lies where pearls lie deep — ■ 

He was the loved of all, yet none 
O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are drest. 

Above the noble slain : 
He wrapt his colours round his breast, 

On a blood-red field of Spain. 

And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; 

She faded, 'midst Italian flowers, 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus they rest, who played 
Beneath the same green tree ; 

Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
Around one parent knee! 



22 



254 MRS. HEMANS. 

They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
And cheered with song the hearth — 

Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, 

And nought beyond, Oh earth ! 



THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.* 

Clasp me a little longer, on the brink 

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress: 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think — 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 

And friend, to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust. 

Gertrude of Wyoming. 

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 

Thy look is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is my resting-place, 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 

Too precious is its chain, 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 

Thou see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 

Thou seest my life-blood flow. — 
Bow to the chastener silently, 

And calmly let me go! 
A little while between our hearts 

The shadowy gulf must lie, 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity! 

* The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the 
Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and died in her husband's 
arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance. 



MRS. HEMANS. 255 

Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek, 

My spirit they detain ; 
I know that from thine agony 

Is wrung that burning rain. 
Best, kindest, weep not ; — make the pang, 

The bitter conflict, less — 
Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy, 

To feel thy love's excess ! 

But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon, 

Would speak to thee once more, 
That thou mayest bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life — 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew ; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasured share, 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for kind looks and words 

Showered on my path like dew, 
For all the love in those deep eyes, 

A gladness ever new ! 
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer j 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here! 



256 MRS. HEMANS. 

I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried, 
The right to gaze on death with thee, 

To perish by thy side ! 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments given — 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to Heaven ? 

Now be thou strong ! Oh ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this ? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our bliss ! 
We plighted our young hearts when storms 

Were dark upon the sky, 
In full, deep knowledge of their task 

To suffer and to die ! 

Be strong ! I leave the living voice 

Of this, my martyred blood, 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 

With the torrent's foaming flood, — 
A spirit 'midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love! 

Ay, joyously endure! 
Our mountains must be altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure 5 
There must our God be worshipped still 

With the worship of the free — ■ 
Farewell! — there's but oiip pang in death, 

One only, — leaving thee ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart ! Oh ! wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; — 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land — 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! 'midst them all when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



22 



257 



258 MRS. HEMANS. 

THE SLEEPER. 
"For sleep is awful." — Byron. 

Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed, 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from Heaven, 
A gracious dewy cloud, 

A covering mantle given 
The weary to enshroud. 

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! 

Revere the pale still brow, 
The meekly-drooping head, 

The long hair's willowy flow. 

Ye know not what ye do, 
That call the slumberer back, 

From the world unseen by you 
Unto life's dim faded track. 

Her soul is far away, 

In her childhood's land, perchance, 
Where her young sisters play, 

Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old sweet native sound 
Her spirit haply weaves ; 

A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 

Long may her sojourn be 
In the music land of dreams ! 



MRS. HE MANS. 259 

Each voice of love is there, 

Each gleam of beauty fled, 
Each lost one still more fair — 

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! 



THE ANGLER. 

"I in these flowery meads would be; 
These crystal streams should solace me : 
To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I with my angle would rejoice : 

And angle on, and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave." 

Isaac Waltoit. 

Thou that hast loved so long and well 

The vale's deep quiet streams, 
Where the pure water-lilies dwell, 

Shedding forth tender gleams; 
And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing 
Glances in golden eves of spring. 

Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine, 

Soft, soft the river flows, 
Wearing the shadow of thy line, 

The gloom of alder-boughs ; 
And in the midst, a richer hue, 
One gliding vein of heaven's own blue. 

And there but low sweet sounds are heard — 

The whisper of the reed, 
The plashing trout, the rustling bird, 

The scythe upon the mead : 
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, 
There steals a step which mortals fear. 



260 MRS. HEMANS. 

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave, 

At noon, his panting breast; 
'Tis not the bittern by the wave 

Seeking her sedgy nest; 
The air is filled with summer's breath, 
The young flowers laugh — yet look ! 't is death ! 

But if, where silvery currents rove, 
Thy heart, grown still and sage, 

Hath learned to read the words of love 
That shine o'er nature's page; 

If holy thoughts thy guests have been, 

Under the shade of willows green ; 

Then, lover of the silent hour, 

By deep lone waters past, 
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, 

To cheer thee through the last ; 
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, 
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell. 

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE. 

Come to the sunset tree! 

The day is past and gone; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

The twilight star to heaven, 

And the summer dew to flowers, 

And rest to us, is given 

By the cool soft evening hours. 

Sweet is the hour of rest! 

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, 
And the gleaming of the west, 

And the turf whereon we lie ; 



MRS. HEMANS. 261 

When the burden and the heat 

Of labour's task are o'er, 
And kindly voices greet 

The tired one at his door. 

Come to the sunset tree! 

The day is past and gone; 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 

Yes; tuneful is the sound 

That dwells in whispering boughs ; 
Welcome the freshness round! 

And the gale that fans our brows. 

But rest more sweet and still 

Than ever nightfall gave, 
Our yearning hearts shall fill 

In the world beyond the grave. 

There shall no tempest blow, 

No scorching noontide heat; 
There shall be no more snow, 

No weary wandering feet. 

So we lift our trusting eyes 

From the hills our fathers trode, 
To the quiet of the skies, 

To the sabbath of our God. 

Come to the sunset tree! 

The day is past and gone, 
The woodman's axe lies free, 

And the reaper's work is done. 



262 MRS. HEMANS. 

WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortality. 
Away! to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring. 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine 

Into so proud a wreath ; 
For that resplendent gift of thine, 

Heroes have smiled in death : 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one happy hour! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 
Can bid each life-pulse beat 

As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 
Calling the brave to meet : 

But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, 

By words of home-born love be blessed. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye, 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy — 
For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame, Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : — 
Where must the lone one turn or flee? — 
Not unto thee — oh! not to thee! 



MRS. HEMANS. 
LET HER DEPART. 

Her home is far, oh! far away! 

The clear light in her eyes 
Hath naught to do with earthly day, 

'Tis kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Even as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 

How softly, yet how far! 
Let her depart! 

Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love — 
Oh! could they mount and fly! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 
Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way, 
But deems it sent from heavenly air, 

For her who cannot stay. 
Let her depart ! 

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 
She breathes and moves alone, 

Pining for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart ! 

I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN 

I would we had not met again! 

— I had a dream of thee, 
Lovely, though sad, on desert plain, 

Mournful on midnight sea. 



263 



264 MRS. HEMANS. 

What though it haunted me by night, 
And troubled through the day ? 

It touched all earth with spirit-light, 
It glorified my way ! 

Oh! what shall now my faith restore 

In holy things and fair ? 
We met — I saw thy soul once more — 

— The world's breath had been there' 

Yes ! it was sad on desert-plain, 
Mournful on midnight sea, 

Yet would I buy with life again 
That one deep dream of thee ! 



COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP. 

Come to me, gentle sleep ! 

I pine, I pine for thee ; 
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, 

And set my spirit free ! 
Each lonely, burning thought, 

In twilight languor steep — 
Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought, 

O gentle, gentle sleep ! 

Come with thine urn of dew, 

Sleep, gentle sleep ! yet bring 
No voice, love's yearning to renew, 

No vision on thy wing! 
Come, as to folding flowers, 

To birds in forests deep ; 
— Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, 

O gentle, gentle sleep ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 265 



CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. 

Fear was within the tossing bark 
When stormy winds grew loud, 

And waves came rolling high and dark, 
And the tall mast was bowed. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill ; 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea — be still! 

And the wind ceased — it ceased ! — that word 
Passed through the gloomy sky; 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast; 
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep 

When sultry day is past. 

O Thou, that in its wildest hour 

Didst rule the tempest's mood, 
Send thy meek spirit forth in power, 

Soft on our souls to brood! 

Thou that didst bow the billows' pride 

Thy mandate to fulfil ! 
Oh, speak to passion's raging tide, 

Speak, and say, " Peace, be still .'" 



23 



266 MRS. HEMANS. 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS. 

"Thanks be to God for the mountains!" 

HowiWs Book of the Seasons. 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 

By the touch of the mountain sod. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge, 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

'Midst the silence of the sky : 
The rocks yield founts of courage, 

Struck forth as by thy rod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the dark resounding caverns, 

Where thy still small voice is heard ; 
For the strong pines of the forests, 

That by thy breath are stirred ; 
For the storms on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 



MRS. HEMANS. 267 

But we, for thy communion, 

Have sought the mountain sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain, 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves : 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God! 

For the shadow of thy presence, 

Round our camp of rock outspread ; 
For the stern defiles of battle, 

Bearing record of our dead ; 
For the snows and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



THE AGONY IN THE GARDEN. 

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and prayed, 

When but his Father's eye 
Looked through the lonely garden's shade 

On that dread agony; 
The Lord of All above, beneath, 
Was bowed with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 
The stars might well grow dim, 



268 MRS. HEMANS. 

When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Him ! 
That He who gave man's breath, might know 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All gathered round his head ; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray — 
Yet passed it not, that cup, away ! 

It passed not — though the stormy wave 

Had sunk beneath his tread ; 
It passed not — though to him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent him from on high 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the sinless thus beset 

With anguish and dismay? 
How may we meet our conflict yet, 

In the dark narrow way ? 
Through Him — through Him, that path who trod- 
Save, or we perish, Son of God ! 



SONNETS. 



And ye are strong to shelter ! — all meek things, 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 
Birds, of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, 
And nun-like violets, by the Avind betrayed. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath played 



MRS. HE MANS. 269 

With his first primrose-wealth : there love hath sought 
A veiling gloom for his unuttered thought; 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and ofttimes there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
A native temple, solemn, hushed, and dim ; 
For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremors thrill 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still 
Confessed a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn. 



FOLIAGE. 

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive 

The joy of verdure! — see, the honied lime 

Showers cool green light o'er banks where wildflowers 

weave 
Thick tapestry ; and woodbine tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. 
The rich deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime, 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale 
That sweeps the boughs : — the chestnut flowers are past, 
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 
From every hedge : — Oh ! never may we lose, 
Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest nature's hues ! 



FLOWERS IN A SICK-ROOM. 

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again 

Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 

For not alone ye bring a joyous train 

Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom — 

23* 



270 MRS. HEMANS. 

Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, 
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, 
Of stars that look down on your folded bells 
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume 
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove 
Like sudden music ; more than this ye bring — 
Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love, 
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing 
Broods o'er the sufferer, drawing fevered breath, 
Whether the couch be that of life or death. 



SABBATH. 

WRITTEN NEAR DEATH. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending 

Through England's primrose meadow paths their way 

Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, 

When the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day. 

The halls, from old heroic ages grey, 

Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 

With those thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, 

Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 

Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread 

With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed 

Of sickness bound ; — yet, oh my God ! I bless 

Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled 

My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled 

To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness. 



MRS. HEMANS. 271 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

Be mute who will, who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Rear'd for thy presence ; therefore I am bound 
To worship, here and everywhere. 

Wordsworth. 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine eye, 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 

And owned thine image in the majesty 
Of their calm temple still ! — that never yet 

There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 

By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, O my God! 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 

I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, 
Touching death's features with a lovely glance 

Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, 
And lending to each holy star a ray 
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God! 

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, 

In the earth's garden — 'midst the mountains old, 

And the low thrillings of the forest shade, 
And the wild sounds of waters uncontrolled, 

And upon many a desert plain and shore — 

No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, O my God! 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 
The gift, the vision of the unsealed eye, 

To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 



272 



MRS. HEMANS, 



Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 
And pure — a consecration unto thee : 
I bless thee, O my God! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening power — if thou hast made 

Like the winged seed, the breathings of my thought, 
And by the swift winds bid them be conveyed 

To lands of other lays, and there become 

Native as early melodies of home : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, 
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper in my song, hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, 

Or but one hope, one prayer — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — ■ that 1 have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, 

Yet, with a colouring halo from above, 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness, 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Well-spring of love, the unfathomed, the divine : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



MRS. HEMANS. 273 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 

High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread, 

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken, 
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed ; 

That passing storms have only fanned the fire, 

Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
1 bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale, 

Each sound and token of the dying day : 
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale, 

I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud 
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

'T is not that fondly I would linger here, 

But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear : — > 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And that the tender shadowing I behold, 
The tracery veining every leaf and flower, 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould, 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour; 

That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Yes ! the young vernal voices in the skies 

Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine eai, 

Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies, 
The spirit-music, unperturbed and clear; 



274 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

The full of soul, yet passionate no more — 
Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now aid, sustain me still! — to thee 1 come, 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are ! 

And for the hope of that immortal home, 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, 

The sufferer and the victor-king of death, 

J bless thee with my glad song's dying breath! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 

(MRS. MACLEAN.) 

This accomplished poetess, whose signature, L. E. L., never failed 
to attract the public eye, when appended to the verses she threw off in 
rapid profusion, was the daughter of an army agent, and born at Hans 
Place, Chelsea, 1802. When very young, she began to manifest indi- 
cations of talent, and, through the friendship of Mr. Jerdan of the Lon- 
don Literary Gazette, her productions frequently and for a long period 
appeared in that magazine. Her mother being left a widow with a 
dependent family in very narrow circumstances, Letitia devoted herself 
to constant and successful literary exertion for their support. Her in- 
dustry was very great, and, notwithstanding her genius and wonderful 
facility of rhythm, we regret that she was obliged to write so fast, as 
more careful study would have placed her in the very front rank of fe- 
male talents : as it was, she continued greatly to improve, and few names 
stand so high in the list of poetesses as hers. In June 1838, she was 
married to Captain Maclean, then appointed Governor of Cape Coast 
Castle, Africa, whither she almost immediately accompanied him, but 
died on the 15th of October, not many weeks after her arrival at the 
settlement. The circumstances of her death were very painful. She 
was found lying dead near the door, on the floor of her own room, with 
a vial of prussic acid in her hand, having taken an excessive dose of the 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 275 

poison, which had been prescribed to her, and she was accustomed to 
use, for the relief of hysterical spasms. Suspicions of suicide, and even 
of fatal designs against her life by others, were rife at the time ; but 
the cheerful tone of her letters written the night before her decease, and 
the bright colouring she gave in them to her expected future, ought to 
remove such dreadful accusations, and convince us that the verdict 
by the coroner's jury of accidental death, in the manner above stated, 
was just. 

The strain of nearly all her poems is warm and passionate: love, de- 
voted, self-sacrificing, absorbing and unsatisfied, being her favourite 
theme. This, with a certain recklessness of mere rigid rules, which 
the necessities of society have prescribed, but ill suited to her impul- 
siveness of character increased by her habits of self-reliance, gave rise 
to many insinuations against her, as afflictive as they were undeserved. 
The friendship of her literary adviser, Mr. Jerdan, was misrepresented 
by scandal, in which envy of her attractive genius had no small part; 
but her natural disposition, notwithstanding her trying circumstances, 
was gay and kindly, ever loth to give pain, and delighting to accord 
praise, though towards the end of her career her indignant scorn of false 
friends shows itself through her verses. In 1824, she published The 
Improvisatrice and other Poems, which was followed, in rapid succes- 
sion, by The Troubadour, The Venetian Bracelet, The Golden Violet, 
The Vow of the Peacock, with very numerous smaller pieces. Besides 
her poetry she wrote several romances, The Fate of Adelaide (her 
earliest separate publication, in her eighteenth year), Romance and 
Reality, Francesca Carara, and Ethel Churchill, all deservedly suc- 
cessful, besides reviews, essays, &c. The flow of poetical language 
and rhyme was so natural to her, that her biographer, Mr. Blanchard, 
says she wrote verse more rapidly than prose. This is seen especially 
in her Improvisatrice, which flows on like improvisation, as it un- 
doubtedly was, her pen being to her as a voice. Some of her smaller 
pieces, as Crescenlius, show her to have been capable of higher classic 
power, if she had had the patience to cultivate a greater severity of 
criticism on her own productions. The editor has far greater pleasure 
in speaking of her writings, as they struck his youthful fancy, than with 
the cool judgment of more mature years ; but he believes that there 
are few who will not join him in a willing tribute to the minstrel power 
of one, who, whatever her defects may have been, had the true fire and 
gush of poetic inspiration. 



276 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

PETRARCH AND LAURA. 

(FROM the impko vis atrice. ) 

Divine st Petrarch ! he whose lyre, 
Like morning' light, half dew, half fire, 
To Laura and to love was vowed — 
He looked on one, v/ho with the crowd 
Mingled, but mixed ; not on whose cheek 

There was a blush, as if she knew 
Whose look was fixed on her's. Her eye, 

Of a spring-sky's delicious blue, 
Had not the language of that bloom, 
But mingling tears, and light, and gloom, 
Was raised abstractedly to Heaven : — 
No sign was to her lover given. 
I painted her with golden tresses, 
Such as float on the wind's caresses 
When the laburnums wildly fling 
Their sunny blossoms to the spring. 
A cheek which had the crimson hue 

Upon the sun-touched nectarine ; 
A lip of perfume and of dew ; 

A brow like twilight's darkened line. 
I strove to catch each charm that long 
Has lived, — thanks to her lover's song! 
Each grace he numbered one by one, 
That shone in her of Avignon. 

I ever thought that poet's fate 
Utterly lone and desolate. 
It is the spirit's bitterest pain 
To love, to be beloved again ; 
And yet between a gulf which ever 
The hearts that burn to meet must sever. 
And he was vowed to one sweet star, 
Bright yet to him, but bright afar. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LAND ON. 277 



THE LOU OF A POETESS. 

(fkom the same.) 

I loved him as young Genius loves, 

When its own wild and radiant heaven 
Of starry thought burns with the light, 

The love, the life, by passion given. 
I loved him, too, as woman loves — 

Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : 
Life had no evil destiny 

That, with him, I could not have borne ! 
I had been nurst in palaces ; 

Yet earth had not a spot so drear, 
That I should not have thought a home 

In Paradise, had he been near ! 
How sweet it would have been to dwell, 
Apart from all, in some green dell 
Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ; 
And nestling birds to sing the hours ! 
Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade. 
But of the woven branches made : 
Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail 
The rose hears from the nightingale ; 
And waked at morning by the call 
Of music from a waterfall. 
But not alone in dreams like this, 
Breathed in the very hope of bliss, 
I loved : my love had been the same 
In hushed despair, in open shame. 
I would have rather been a slave, 

In tears, in bondage, by his side. 
Than shared in all, if wanting him, 

This world had power to give beside ! 
24 



278 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON 

My heart was withered, — and my heart 

Had ever been the world to me ; 
And love had been the first fond dream, 

Whose life was in reality. 
I had sprung from my solitude, 

Like a young bird upon the wing 
To meet the arrow; so 1 met 

My poisoned shaft of suffering. 
And as that bird, with drooping crest 
And broken wing will seek his nest, 
But seek in vain ; so vain I sought 
My pleasant home of song and thought 
There was one spell upon my brain, 
Upon my pencil, on my strain ; 
But one face to my colours came; 
My chords replied but to one name — 
Lorenzo! — all seemed vowed to thee, 
To passion, and to misery ! 
I had no interest in the things 

That once had been like life, or light; 
No tale was pleasant to mine ear, 

No song was sweet, no picture bright. 
1 was wild with my great distress, 
My lone, my utter hopelessness ! 
I would sit hours by the side 
Of some clear rill, and mark it glide, 
Bearing my tears along, till night 
Came with dark hours ; and soft starlight 
Watch o'er its shadowy beauty keeping, 

Till I grew calm : — then I would take 
The lute, which had all day been sleeping 

Upon a cypress tree, and wake 
The echoes of the midnight air 
With words that love wrung from despair. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 279 



LOVE, HOPE, AND BEAUTY. 



Love may be increased by fears, 

May be fanned with sighs, 
Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts ; 

But without Hope it dies ! 
As in the far Indian isles 

Dies the young cocoa tree, 
Unless within the pleasant shade 

Of the parent plant it be : 
So Love may spring up at first 

Lighted at Beauty's eyes : — 
But Beauty is not all its life, 

For without Hope it dies. 



LINES OF LIFE. 

Orphan in my first years, I early learnt 
To make my heart suffice itself, and seek 
Support and sympathy in its own depths. 

Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye, 
Too strictly schooled are they 

One secret of my soul to show, 
One hidden thought betray. 

I never knew the time my heart 
Looked freely from my brow ; 

It once was checked by timidness, 
'T is taught by caution now. 

I live among the cold, the false, 
And I must seem like them; 

And such I am, for I am false 
As those I most condemn. 



280 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON 

I teach my lip its sweetest smile, 
My tongue its softest tone : 

I borrow others' likeness, till 
Almost I lose my own. 

I pass through flattery's gilded sieve, 
Whatever I would say ; 

In social life, all, like the blind, 
Must learn to feel their way. 

I check my thoughts like curbed steeds 
That struggle with the rein; 

I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks 
In the unfathomed. main. 

I hear them speak of love, the deep, 
The true, and mock the name ; 

Mock at all high and early truth, 
And I too do the same. 

I hear them tell some touching tale, 
I swallow down the tear; 

I hear them name some generous deed, 
And I have learnt to sneer. 

I hear the spiritual, the kind, 
The pure, but named in mirth ; 

Till all of good, ay, even hope, 
Seems exiled from our earth. 

And one fear, withering ridicule, 
Is all that 1 can dread ; 

A sword hung by a single hair 
For ever o'er the head. 

We bow to a most servile faith, 
In a most servile fear ; 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 281 

While none among us dares to say 
What none will choose to hear. 

And if we dream of loftier thoughts, 

In weakness they are gone ; 
And indolence and vanity 

Rivet our fetters on. 

Surely I was not born for this ! 

I feel a loftier mood 
Of generous impulse, high resolve, 

Steal o'er my solitude ! 

I gaze upon the thousand stars 

That fill the midnight sky ; 
And wish, so passionately wish, 

A light like theirs on high. 

I have such eagerness of hope 

To benefit my kind ; 
And feel as if immortal power 

Were given to my mind. 

I think on that eternal fame, 

The sun of earthly gloom, 
Which makes the gloriousness of death, 

The future of the tomb — 

That earthly future, the faint sign 

Of a more heavenly one ; 
— A step, a word, a voice, a look, — 

Alas ! my dream is done. 

And earth, and earth's debasing stain, 

Again is on my soul ; 
And I am but a nameless part 
Of a most worthless whole. 
24* 



282 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

Why write I this ? because my heart 
Towards the future springs, 

That future Avhere it loves to soar 
On more than eagle wings. 

The present, it is but a speck 

In that eternal time, 
In which my lost hopes find a home, 

My spirit knows its clime. 

! not myself, — for what am I ? 
The worthless and the weak, 

Whose every thought of self should raise 
A blush to burn my cheek. 

But song has touched my lips with fire, 
And made my heart a shrine ; 

For what, although alloyed, debased, 
Is in itself divine. 

1 am myself but a vile link 
Amid life's weary chain ; 

But I have spoken hallowed words, 
O do not say in vain ! 

My first, my last, my only wish, 
Say will my charmed chords 

Wake to the morning light of fame, 
And breathe again my words ? 

Will the young maiden, when her tears 
Alone in moonlight shine — 

Tears for the absent and the loved 
Murmur some song of mine ? 

Will the pale youth by his dim lamp 
Himself a dying flame, 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 283 

From many an antique scroll beside, 
Choose that which bears my name ? 



Let music make less terrible 
The silence of the dead ; 

I care not so my spirit last 
Long after life has fled. 



WHEN SHOULD LOVERS BREATHE THEIR VOWS, 

When should lovers breathe their vows ? 

When should ladies hear them ? 
When the dew is on the boughs, 

When none else are near them ; 
When the moon shines cold and pale, 

When the birds are sleeping, 
When no voice is on the gale, 

When the rose is weeping ; 
When the stars are bright on high, 

Like hopes in young Love's dreaming, 
And glancing round the light clouds fly, 

Like soft fears to shade their beaming. 
The fairest smiles are those that live 

On the brow by starlight wreathing; 
And the lips their richest incense give 

When the sigh is at midnight breathing. 
O, softest is the cheek's love-ray 

When seen by moonlight hours, 
Other roses seek the day, 

But blushes are night flowers. 
O, when the moon and stars are bright, 

When the dew-drops glisten, 
Then their vows should lovers plight, 

Then should ladies listen! 



284 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

THE LITTLE SHROUD. 

She put him on a snow-white shroud, 

A chaplet on his head ; 
And gathered early primroses 

To scatter o'er the dead. 

She laid him in his little grave — 
'T was hard to lay him there, 

When spring was putting forth its flowers, 
And every thing was fair. 

She had lost many children — now 
The last of them was gone ; 

And day and night she sat and wept 
Beside the funeral stone. 

One midnight, while her constant tears 
Were falling with the dew, 

She heard a voice, and lo ! her child 
Stood by her weeping too ! 

His shroud was damp, his face was white, 
He said, — "I cannot sleep, 

Your tears have made my shroud so wet, 
O, mother, do not weep !" 

O, love is strong ! — the mother's heart 
Was filled with tender fears ; 

O, love is strong ! — and for her child 
Her grief restrained its tears. 

One eve a light shone round her bed, 
And there she saw him stand — 

Her infant in his little shroud, 
A taper in his hand. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 285 

" Lo ! mother, see my shroud is dry, 
And I can sleep once more !" 
And beautiful the parting smile 
The little infant wore. 

And down within the silent grave 

He laid his weary head ; 
And soon the early violets 

Grew o'er his grassy bed. 

The mother went her household ways- 

Again she knelt in prayer, 
And only asked of Heaven its aid 

Her heavy lot to bear. 

EXPECTATION. 

She looked from out the window 

With long and asking gaze, 
From the gold clear light of morning 

To the twilight's purple haze. 
Cold and pale the planets shone, 
Still the girl kept gazing on. 
From her white and weary forehead 

Droopeth the dark hair, 
Heavy with the dews of evening, 

Heavier with her care ; 
Falling as the shadows fall, 
Till flung round her like a pall. 

When from the carved lattice 

First she leant to look, 
Her bright face was written 

Like some pleasant book ; 
Her warm cheek the red air quaffed, 
And her eyes looked out and laughed. 



286 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 

She is leaning back now languid, 
And her cheek is white, 

Only on the drooping eyelash 
Glistens tearful light. 

Colour, sunshine hours are gone, 

Yet the lady watches on. 

Human heart, this history 

Is thy fated lot, 
Even such thy watching, 

For what cometh not. 
Till with anxious waiting dull, 
Round thee fades the beautiful, 
Still thou seekest on, though weary 

Seeking still in vain : 
Daylight deepens into twilight, 

What has been thy gain ! 
Death and night are closing round, 
All that thou hast sought unfound. 



THE FORGOTTEN ONE. 

No shadow rests upon the place 
Where once thy footsteps roved ; 

Nor leaf, nor blossom, bears a trace 
Of how thou wert beloved. 

The very night dew disappears 

Too soon, as if it spread its tears. 

Thou art forgotten ! — thou, whose feet 

Were listened for like song ! 
They used to call thy voice so sweet ; — 

It did not haunt them long. 
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth — 
How could they bear their lonely hearth ? 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 287 

There is no picture to recall 

Thy glad and open brow ; 
No profiled outline on the wall 

Seems like thy shadow now ; 
They have not even kept to wear 
One ringlet of thy golden hair. 

When here we sheltered last, appears 

But just like yesterday ; 
It startles me to think that years 

Since then are passed away. 
The old oak tree that was our tent, 
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent. 

A shower in June — >a summer shower, 

Drove us beneath the shade ; 
A beautiful and greenwood bower 

The spreading branches made, 
The raindrops shine upon the bough, 
The passing rain — but where art thou ? 

But I forget how many showers 

Have washed this old oak tree, 
The winter and the summer hours 

Since I stood here with thee : 
And I forget how chance a thought 
Thy memory to my heart has brought. 

I talk of friends who once have wept, 

As if they still should weep ; 
I speak of grief that long has slept, 

As if it could not sleep ; 
I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness, 
Have I, myself, forgotten less ? 



288 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

I 've mingled with the young and fair, 
Nor thought how there was laid 

One fair and young as any there, 
In silence and in shade. 

How could I see a sweet mouth shine 

With smiles, and not remember thine ? 

Ah ! it is well we can forget, 

Or who could linger on 
Beneath a sky whose stars are set, 

On earth whose flowers are gone ? 
For who could welcome loved ones near, 
Thinking of those once far more dear, 

Our early friends, those of our youth ? 

We cannot feel again 
The earnest love, the simple truth, 

Which made us such friends then. 
We grow suspicious, careless, cold ; 
We love not as we loved of old. 

No more a sweet necessity, 
Love must and will expand, 

Loved and beloving we must be, 
With open heart and hand, 

Which only ask to trust and share 

The deep affections which they bear. 

Our love was of that early time ; 

And now that it is past, 
It breathes as of a purer clime 

Than where my lot is cast, 
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears 
In thinking of those early years. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LAN DON. 289 

It shocked me first to see the sun 

Shine gladly o'er thy tomb ; 
To see the wild flowers o'er it run 

In such luxuriant bloom. 
Now I feel glad that they should keep 
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep. 

The heaven whence thy nature came 

Only recalled its own ; 
It is Hope that now breathes thy name, 

Though borrowing Memory's tone. 
I feel this earth could never be 

The native home of one like thee. 

Farewell ! the early dews that fall 

Upon thy grass-grov/n bed, 
Are like the thoughts that now recall 

Thine image from the dead. 
A blessing hallows thy dark cell — 
I will not stay to weep. Farewell ! 

THE CHANGED HOME. 

I left my home; — 'twas in a little vale, 
Sheltered from snow-storms by the stately pines ; 
A small clear river wandered quietly, 
Its smooth waves only cut by the light barks 
Of fishers, and but darkened by the shade 
The willows flung, when to the southern wind 
They threw their long green tresses. On the slope 
Were five or six white cottages, whose roofs 
Reached not to the laburnum's height, whose boughs 
Shook over them bright showers of golden bloom. 
Sweet silence reigned around : — no other sound 
Came on the air, than when the shepherd made 
25 t 



290 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

The reed-pipe rudely musical, or notes 
From the wild birds or children in their play 
Sending forth shouts or laughter. Strangers came 
Rarely or never near the lonely place. . . . 
I went into far countries. Years past by, 
But still that vale in silent beauty dwelt 
Within my memory. Home I came at last. 
I stood upon a mountain height, and looked 
Into the vale below ; and smoke arose, 
And heavy sounds •, and thro' the thick dim air 
Shot blackened turrets, and brick walls, and roofs 
Of the red tile. I entered in the streets : 
There were ten thousand hurrying to and fro ; 
And masted vessels stood upon the river, 
And barges sullied the once dew-clear stream. 
Where were the willows, where the cottages ? 
I sought my home ; I sought and found a city, — 
Alas ! for the green valley ! 

SONG. 

The dream on the pillow 

That flits with the day, 
The leaf of the willow 

A breath wears away ; 

The dust on the blossom, 

The spray on the sea : 
Ay — ask thine own bosom — 

Are emblems of thee. 

When I trust the dark waters, 

And tempests are near, 
List the blue sea's false daughters. 

And think not on fear — ■ 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 291 

Oh then I '11 believe thee 

As once I believed, 
Nor dread thou 'It deceive me 

As thou hast deceived. 

When the rose blooms at Christmas, 

I'll trust thee again, 
Or the snow falls in summer, — 

But never till then! 

SONG. 

What was our parting ? — one wild kiss. 

How wild I may not say, 
One long and breathless clasp, and then 

As life were past away. 

We parted, — I to weep o'er all 

My young heart's great excess 
Of passion, you to dream your love 

Into forgetfulness. 

What has our absence been ? a long 

And dreary while to me •, 
And must I feel — I dare not ask 

What it has been to thee? 

How shall we meet on either side, 

With heart so light as thine ? 
On yours it may be fond again, 

It will be cold on mine ! 

CRESCENTITJS. 

1 looked upon his brow, — no sign 

Of guilt or fear was there ; 
He stood as proud by that death-shrine 

As even o'er Despair 



292 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

He had a power; in his eye 
There was a quenchless energy, 

A spirit that could dare 
The deadliest form that Death could take, 
And dare it for the daring's sake. 

He stood, the fetters on his hand, — 
He raised them haughtily ; 

And had that grasp been on the brand 
It could not wave on high 

With freer pride than it waved now. 

Around he looked with changeless brow 
On many a torture nigh : 

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, 

And, worst of all, his own red steel. 

I saw him once before ; he rode 

Upon a coal-black steed, 
And tens of thousands thronged the road 

And bade their warrior speed. 
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, 
And graved with many a dint that told 

Of many a soldier's deed ; 
The sun shone on his sparkling mail, 
And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 

But now he stood chained and alone, 
The headsman by his side; 

The plume, the helm, the charger, gone ; 
The sword, which had defied 

The mightiest, lay broken near; 

And yet no sign or sound of fear 
Came from that lip of pride ; 

And never king or conqueror's brow 

Wore higher look than his did now. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 293 

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 

With an uncovered eye ; 
A wild shout from the numbers broke 

Who thronged to see him die. 
It was a people's loud acclaim, 
The voice of anger and of shame, 

A nation's funeral cry, 
Rome's wail above her only son, 
Her patriot, and her latest one. 



THE VENTURE OF A POET. 

It is a fearful stake the poet casts, 
When he comes forth from his sweet solitude 
Of hopes, and songs, and visionary things, 
To ask the iron verdict of the world. 
Till then his home has been in fairyland, 
Sheltered in the sweet depths of his own heart ; 
But the strong need of praise impels him forth ; 
For never was there poet but he craved 
That golden sunshine of secure renown, 
That sympathy which is the life of fame. 
It is full dearly bought : henceforth he lives 
Feverish and anxious, in an unkind world, 
That only gives the laurel to the grave. 

SUCCESS. 

Few know of life's beginnings — men behold 
The goal achieved ; — the warrior, when his sword 
Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun ; 
The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm ; 
The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice, 
And mould opinion, on his gifted tongue : 
They count not life's first steps, and never think 
25* 



294 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

Upon the many miserable hours 
When hope deferred was sickness to the heart. 
They reckon not the battle and the march, 
The long privations of a wasted youth ; 
They never see the banner till unfurled. 
What are to them the solitary nights 
Past pale and anxious by the sickly lamp, 
Till the young poet wins the world at last 
To listen to the music long his own ? 
The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind 
That makes their destiny ; but they do not trace 
Its struggle, or its long expectancy. 
Hard are life's early steps ; and, but that youth 
Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, 
Men would behold its threshold, and despair. 

THE FLOATING BEACON. 

Why art thou thus, thou lonely bark, 

The last on the darkling sea ? 
Why are thy sails to the night-wind spread, 

And why shines that light on thee ? 

Why art thou here, thou lonely bark, 
When the other ships are gone ? 

I deemed thee away, with those to-day ; 
But still thou art sailing alone. 

There came a voice from the lonely bark, 
Or mine own thoughts answered to me : 

Spread is my sail to the midnight gale, 
And my light shines lone on the sea ; 

For my watch is by the shoal and the sand, 
And the rock that is hidden by night, 

And many a mariner kneels at home, 
And blesses the beacon liajht. 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 295 

Is not my light like that holier light 

That heaven sheds over life's path, 
Thought not of, prized not in stillness and shine, 

But welcomed in darkness and wrath ! 



CHANGE. 

And this is what is left of youth ! . . . 

There were two boys, who were bred up together, 

Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board ; 

Each tried the other's sport, from their first chase, 

Young hunters of the butterfly and bee, 

To when they followed the fleet hare, and tried 

The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside 

The silver trout stream, watching as the sun 

Played on the bubbles : shared each in the store 

Of either's garden : and together read 

Of him the master of the desert isle, 

Till a low hut, a gun, and a canoe, 

Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came 

A thought of future days, 't was but to say 

That they would share each other's lot, and do 

Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain : they parted 

With promises of long remembrance, words 

Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm tears, 

Hidden like shame by the young eyes which shed them, 

But which are thought upon in after years 

As what we would give worlds to shed once more. 

They met again, — but different from themselves, 
At least what each remembered of themselves : 
The one proud as a soldier of his rank, 
And of his many battles : and the other 
Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill 
And toil which gathered it ; each with a brow 



296 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

And heart alike darkened by years and care. 

They met with cold words, and yet colder looks : 

Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought 

The other only changed, himself the same. 

And coldness bred dislike, and rivalry 

Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts 

That lingered yet, healthy and beautiful, 

Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they, 

Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word. 

Were strangers in their age : if their eyes met, 

'T was but to look contempt, and when they spoke, 

Their speech was wormwood ! . . . 

. . - . And this, this is life ! 



THE SNOWDROP. 

Thou beautiful new comer, 

With white and maiden brow ; 
Thou fairy gift from summer, 

Why art thou blooming now ? 
This dim and sheltered alley 

Is dark with winter green ; 
Not such as in the valley 

At sweet spring time is seen. 

The lime tree's tender yellow, 

The aspen's silvery sheen, 
With mingling colours mellow 

The universal green. 
Now solemn yews are bending 

'Mid gloomy fires around ; 
And in long dark wreaths descending, 

The ivy sweeps the ground. 

No sweet companion pledges 
Thy health as dewdrops pass ; 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 297 

No rose is on the hedges, 

No violet in the grass. 
Thou art watching, and thou only 

Above the earth's snow tomb , 
Thus lovely, and thus lonely, 

I bless thee for thy bloom. 

Though the singing rill be frozen, 

While the wind forsakes the west, 
Though the singing birds have chosen 

Some lone and silent rest; 
Like thee, one sweet thought lingers 

In a heart else cold and dead, 
Though the summer's flowers, and singers, 

And sunshine, long hath fled : 

'Tis the love for long years cherished, 

Yet lingering, lorn, and lone ; 
Though its lovelier lights have perished, 

And its earlier hopes are flown. 
Though a weary world hath bound it, 

With many a heavy thrall, 
And the cold and changed surround it, 

It blossometh o'er all. 



THE WIDOW'S MITE. 

It is the fruit of waking hours 

When others are asleep, 
When moaning round the low-thatched roof 

The winds of winter creep. 

It is the fruit of summer days 

Passed in a gloomy room, 
When others are abroad to taste 

The pleasant morning bloom. 



298 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, 

'T is given from a scanty store, 
And missed while it is given ; 

'T is given — for the claims of earth 
Are less than those of heaven. 



Few save the poor feel for the poor; 

The rich know not how hard 
It is to be of needful food 

And needful rest debarred. 

Their paths are paths of plenteousness ; 

They sleep on silk and down, 
And never think how heavily 

The weary head lies down. 

They know not of the scanty meal 
With small pale faces round ; 

No fire upon the cold, damp hearth, 
When snow is on the ground. 

They never by their window sit, 

And see the gay pass by ; 
Yet take their weary work again, 

Though with a mournful eye. 

The rich, they give — 'they miss it not — 

A blessing cannot be 
Like that which rests, thou widowed one, 

Upon thy gift and thee! 



LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 299 

LAST VERSES OF L. E. L. 

IN ALLUSION TO THE POLE STAR, DURING HER VOYAGE TO AFRICA. 

A star has left the kindling sky — « 

A lovely northern light ; 
How many planets are on high ! 

But that has left the night. 

I miss its bright familiar face, 

It was a friend to me ; 
Associate with my native place, 

And those beyond the sea. 

It rose upon our English sky, 

Shone o'er our English land, 
And brought back many a loving eye, 

And many a gentle hand. 

It seemed to answer to my thought, 

It called the past to mind, 
And with its welcome presence brought 

All I had left behind. 

The voyage it lights no longer, ends 

Soon on a foreign shore ; 
How can I but recall the friends 

That I may see no more ? 

Fresh from the pain it was to part — 

How could 1 bear the pain ? 
Yet strong the omen in my heart 

That says — We meet again. 



300 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 

Meet with a deeper, dearer love ; 

For absence shows the worth 
Of all from which we then remove, 

Friends, home, and native earth. 

Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes 
Still turned the first on thee 

Till I have felt a sad surprise, 
That none looked up with me. 

But thou hast sunk upon the wave, 
Thy radiant place unknown ; 

I seem to stand beside a grave, 
And stand by it alone. 

Farewell ! ah, would to me were given 
A power upon thy light ! 

What words upon our English heaven 
Thy loving rays should write ! 

Kind messages of love and hope 
Upon thy rays should be ; 

Thy shining orbit should have scope 
Scarcely enough for me. 

Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond, 
And little needed too; 

My friends ! 1 need not look beyond 
My heart to look for you. 



LADY FLORA HASTINGS, 



Eldest daughter of Francis, Marquis of Hastings, born 1806. 
From early life she was devoted to study, many of her pieces showing 
an intimate familiarity with ancient and modern languages. She was 
appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to the Duchess of Kent, and while 
in this station an enlargement of her liver excited rash suspicions of 
her virtue, to which the virgin heiress to the throne of England, keenly 
anxious for the character of her court, and misled by Sir James Clark's 
inexcusable misjudgment of the case, unhappily listened. The deeply- 
injured lady, eminent for beauty, accomplishment, talents and piety, 
suffered but for a brief season in the public estimation, and died, amidst 
universal expressions of sympathy and mournful esteem, at Buckingham 
Palace, July 5th, 1839. Her poems, collected by herself, were pub- 
lished after her death by her affectionate sister. They are sweet and 
musical, constituting from the purity and holiness of their sentiments a 
triumphant refutation of the cruel calumnies which shadowed the close 
of her excellent life. 



SONG. 

When first I met thee, on thy brow 
The light of fancy played, 
And brightly beamed the eyes which now 
Those downcast lashes shade. 
Thou movedst an airy form of light, 
A thing almost divine ; 
I might not dim thy fortunes bright 
By love so sad as mine. 
26 (301) 



302 LADY FLORA HASTINGS. 

For I had seen the dreams depart 

Which once illusion shed ; 

Had known the dullness of the heart 

When youth's gay charm is fled. 

Thou wert so blest, thou couldst not share 

The darkness of my doom ; 

Thou wert a flower too sweet, too rare, 

To cheer the desert's gloom. 

But years are past, and thou hast known 
Youth's noon-dreams fade away ; 
The light of cloudless mirth is flown, 
And rapture's fleeting ray. 
Chastened and calm the hope appears 
That gilds thy placid brow •, 
Sweet sister! in this vale of tears, 
I dare to love thee now. 



ITALY. 

Oh ! name it not, there is a spell 
Around its memory clinging, 
To which I would not bid farewell 
For all the future's bringing. 

The skies of radiant Italy ! 

Oh ! they are deeply blue ; 

And nothing save their kindred waves 

Can match their sapphire hue. 

No little clouds e'er flit across, 

To dim their heavenly light; 

Would that my soul were pure as they, 

As spotless and as bright ! 

The gales of balmy Italy ! 
Oh.' as they fleet along, 



LADY FLORA HASTINGS. 303 

They bear upon their downy wings 
The treasured wealth of song. 
They linger through the blooming scenes 
Where once my footsteps roved ; 
And they are free, though I am not, 
To kiss the flowers I loved. 



The songs of tuneful Italy ! 

They wake within the heart 

Those visions of the olden time, 

Which will not thence depart. 

And freedom, love, and honour bright, 

Rise from the dust again. 

Would that my feeble lyre could wake 

The spirit-stirring strain ! 

The flowers of sunny Italy ! 

Oh! blissful is their doom; 

A brief, bright space to bloom, then sink 

Untrodden to the tomb. 

Still breathing fragrance as they droop 

Beneath the golden ray; 

Oh thus were 't mine to sigh my soul 

In ecstasy away! 

The tombs of holy Italy ! 

The earth where heroes trod; 

Where sainted martyrs glorified 

In death th' Incarnate God ! 

Where all is bright, and pure, and calm, 

On earth, in air, and sea. 

O Italy ! amongst thy tombs, 

Hast thou not one for me ? 



304 LADY FLORA HASTINGS. 



THE SWAN SONG. 

Grieve not that I die young. — Is it'not well 
To pass away ere life hath lost its brightness ? 
Bind me no longer, sisters, with the spell 
Of love and your kind words. List ye to me : 
Here I am blessed — but I would be more free ; 
I would go forth in all my spirit's lightness. 
Let me depart ! 

Ah ! who would linger till bright eyes grow dim, 
Kind voices mute, and faithful bosoms cold ? 
Till carking care, and coil, and anguish grim, 
Cast their dark shadows o'er this faery world ; 
Till fancy's many-coloured wings are furled, 
And all, save the proud spirit, w r axeth old ? 
I would depart ! 

Thus would I pass away — yielding my soul 
A joyous thank-offering to Him wbo gave 
That soul to be, those starry orbs to roll. 
Thus — thus exultingly would I depart, 
Song on my lips, ecstasy in my heart. 
Sisters — sweet sisters, bear me to my grave — 
Let me depart! 



MARY-ANNE BROWNE, 

(MRS. GRAY,) 

Was born in 1812, at Maiden Head, Berkshire. She published as 
early as 1827 her Mount Blanc, in 1828 Ada, and in 1829 Repentance ; 
The Coronal, 1834; Birth-Day Gift, 1836; Ignatia, 1839; besides 
many smaller pieces, particularly a series of poems on classical subjects, 
in the Dublin University Magazine. Her father removing to Liver- 
pool about 1830, she enjoyed the advantage of Mr. Roscoe's literary 
friendship, and subsequently that of the Rev. Hugh M'Neile, at whose 
instigation she published in 1840 a small volume of Sacred Poetry. In 
1842 she was married to an estimable Scotch gentleman of literary 
taste, Mr. James Gray, a favourite nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd. 
She died at Cork, in 1844. Miss Browne's poetry, though not of a 
high order, is characterized by pure taste, just sentiment, a strong 
relish for classical examples, and an unaffected piety which won for 
her the warm esteem of all who knew her in domestic life. 



THE FORGOTTEN. 

They have forgotten thee — and yet 

How beautiful wert thou ! 
The light of holiness seemed set 

Upon thy lovely brow ; 
And ever, 'neath thy soft dark eye, 
Affection's fountain seemed to lie. 

They saw thee fading in thy youth, 
And shrunk with mournful fears, 

Dreading to look upon the truth, 
Thinking thereon with tears, 

Hoping, when hope was wild and vain, 

— A sad relief from present pain. 
26* u ( 305 ) 



306 MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 

I stood with them beside the bed, 
Where lay thy mortal frame, 

And oh ! what bitter tears we shed 
Murmuring thy sainted name, 

Linked to expressions fond and dear 

Which thou in life hadst loved to hear! 

Yes, in that chamber's solemn gloom, 
What idle vows were made ! 

Methought their anguish for thy doom 
Could never more be staid. 

It seemed as if all happy glee 

Had from their dwelling passed with thee 

But this is changed — a few short years 
And thou art with the past; 

Thy name unseals no source of tears, 
And scarce a shade is cast 

When thou art mentioned, by some chance, 

On the light tone or mirthful glance. 

They used to go as pilgrims oft 
To weep beside thy grave — 

Now may the summer dews fall soft, 
Or wintry tempests rave, 

Yet no familiar foot hath pressed 

The turf of thy lone place of rest. 

They would not own thy lessened power, 

And yet — a fallen star — 
A perished bird — a last year's flower, 

As much remembered are ; 
Even he, whose heart seemed wholly thine, 
Is kneelinsr at another's shrine. 



MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 307 

I look upon the silken hair 

I treasure for thy sake — 
And wonder others do not share 

The thoughts it can awake ; 
Strange that I keep thy mem'ry yet, 
When nearer friends can so forget. 



SHE WAS NOT MADE FOR HAPPINESS. 

She was not made for happiness; her eyes 

Were all too soft and deep, 
Shade 'midst their radiance — as in lovely skies 

Of April when they weep. 
Yet when she spake with earnest eloquence, 

The soul beneath them burned 
As if her thoughts concentred and intense, 

Them into stars had turned. 

She was not made for happiness ; her brow 

Had lines of early thought, 
Traced e'en in childhood's sunny time, and now 

Still daily deeper wrought. 
And her sweet lips ! they were not chiselled forms, 

Such as the sculptor knows, 
The quivering smile, that saddens while it warms, 

Hung o'er their rose. 

She was not made for happiness ; too much 

She felt for others' woe, 
What to another's heart was but a touch, 

Hers felt a cruel blow. 
No tale of suffering, sorrow, or disease, 

But found an echo there — 
A wounded bird — a broken flower — e'en these 

Her sympathy might share. 



308 MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 

She was not made for happiness ; and yet 

Too much of ours she made. 
With what unmingled anguish and regret 

We saw her droop and fade ! 
Suffering had seemed her birthright dower, 

Years of sad pain went o'er, 
And yet we loved our frail and feeble flower 

Even for this the more. 

But standing by her dying bed, we felt 

A better prospect dawn ; 
A mist around her spirit seemed to melt, 

A curtain seemed withdrawn. 
Bright happy glances from her eyes were sent 

Up through the summer sky — 
Ah! now she knew her own true element, 

The better world on high. 

And hopefully she spake, and happily 

Of communings with God — 
Of light and glory, that we could not see, 

Upon the path she trod. 
A setting sunbeam from her cloudy lot 

At length broke brightly forth — 
Oh ! she was made for happiness — but not 

The happiness of earth. 



the s KY. 

Fair sky ! what hast thou in the time of spring ? 

Birds, borne along on the joyous wing; 

Feathery clouds and fleeting showers; 

Odours, breathed up from the fresh-blown flowers ; 

Echoes of voices and song on earth, 

Of the child's light laugh, and the peasant's mirth ; 



MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 309 

Blue gleams, bright from the sun-ray's kiss, 
And trembling as if from excess of bliss. 

And what is thine in the summer's eve, 
When the full bright sun hath taken his leave ? 
Clouds, that are rich as young Hope's dreams, — ■ 
Rainbow colouring, and amber beams ; 
Flushes of crimson glory, growing, 
Like a maiden's blush more intensely glowing 
Beneath the ardent gazer's view ; 
Purple twilight, and fragrant dew. 

What hast thou in the depth of night ? 
Grandeur and beauty, and calm moonlight ; 
Stars, bright stars, on their thrones on high ; 
Making their voiceless melody. 
Prayers, sent up from the sleepless bed ; 
Sounds of the weary sentinel's tread; 
Murmurs of forests, by light winds stirred, 
And sweet, sweet music, from night's own bird. 

What is below thee ? A land of sin, 

Where sorrow and death have entered in ; 

Where tears have darkened the brightest eyes, 

And the rosiest lip breathes forth sad sighs ; 

Where the sunny curls blanch with the hand of time, 

And the purest spirits are tinged with crime ; 

Where the flowers, and the trees, and the birds must die ; 

And all things tell of mortality. 

What is beyond thee ? A world where the power 
Of time cannot wither a single flower; 
Where the earthly stains of our human clay, 
In the streams of mercy are washed away ; 



310 MARY-ANNE BROWNE. 

Where there comes not a shade o'er the tranquil brow ; 
Where the voice never sounds in one tone of woe. 
Fair sky! we forget half our sorrow and care, 
When we gaze upon thee, and think — heaven is there ! 



THY WILL BE DONE. 

It is a short and simple prayer; 

But 'tis the Christian's stay, 
Through eveiy varied scene of care, 

Until his dying day. 
As through the wilderness of life, 

Calmly he wanders on, 
His prayer in every time of strife 

Is still " Thy will be done !" 

When in his happy infant years 

He treads 'midst thornless flowers ; 
When pass away his smiles and tears 

Like April suns and showers : 
Then, kneeling by its parents' hearth, 

Play-tired, at set of sun, 
What is the prayer he murmurs forth ? 

— " Father ! — ■ thy will be done." 

When the bright summer sky of time, 

Cloudless, is o'er him spread ; 
When love's bright wreath is in its prime, 

With not one blossom dead : 
Whilst o'er his hopes, and prospects fair, 

No mist of woe hath gone ; 
Still, he repeats the first taught prayer — 

" Father, thy will be done !" 



CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. 311 

But when his sun no longer beams, 

And love's sweet flowers decay ; 
When all hope's rainbow-coloured dreams 

Are sadly wept away ; 
As a flower bent beneath the storm 

Still fragrantly breathes on ; 
So when dark clouds life's heaven deform, 

He prays, — '"Thy will be done!" 

And when the winter of his age 

Sheds o'er his locks its snows ; 
When he can feel his pilgrimage 

Fast drawing to a close : 
Then, as he finds his strength decline, 

This is his prayer alone ; 
u To thee my spirit I resign — 

Father ! thy will be done !" 



CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH, 

(MRS. TONNA.) 

This voluminous writer, whose prose works have had an extraordi- 
nary run of popularity among that class of religious persons known as 
evangelical, wrote many brief poetical pieces which were inspired by 
affection or devotion. They partake of the characteristics exhibited in 
her other writings, and have the merits of smoothness and ease. She 
seems to have set little store by her poetical pieces, seldom retaining 
copies of them in her possession ; and it was not without difficulty that 
the scattered leaves inscribed by her pen between the years 1817 and 
1845, were collected for publication after her decease. In 1841 she 
was married to Lucius H. Joseph Tonna, a gentleman of some literary 
pretensions much younger than herself, who seems to have cherished 
for her a sincere affection. For many years of her life she was afflicted 
with deafness, which made her seek with greater zest the solace of 
literary occupation. She died 12th of July, 1846. 



312 CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. 

TOGETHER AND A I. O N E . 

Oh sweet it is, through life's dark way, 

In Christian fellowship to move, 
Illumed by one unclouded ray, 

And one in faith, in hope, in love. 
Sweet is the ever beaming face 

Of friendship long and freely known, 
As in the mirror's orb to trace 

Each fleeting thought that marks our own. 

But bid the severed pilgrim wend 

Lonely along his chequered road, 
Remove the hand was wont to tend 

His faltering steps and share his load. 
Triumphantly his soul can rise 

Above the fate that calls to part, 
It cannot rend the sacred ties 

Entwined around that kindred heart. 

Oh ! glorious privilege to feel, 

When sev'ring oceans roll between, 
Before one radiant throne they kneel, 

And mingle in a world unseen ! 
Spurning the reign of time and space, 

To one bright dwelling they repair, 
Soar to the spirit's resting-place, 

And pierce the veil, and anchor there. 

STANZAS. 

How beautiful, how bright, 

Through the soft gloom of night, 
Yon zone of lamps, girdling the river's pride! 

With many a varied dye 

They flash upon the eye, 
And glance reflected from the sparkling tide. 



CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. 313 

Yet from this darksome earth 

They date their unblest birth, 
And glow with but a base terrestrial :ire ; 

Beneath the coming day 

They sicken and decay, 
And quenched in sunbeams unobserved expire 

But, lo ! upon the stream 

Descends a living beam, 
And gently spreads a pale, calm, solemn ray, 

Nocturnal watch to keep, 

O'er those who plough the deep, 
Then blush and brighten into sunny day. 

In silver mantle clad 

The little waves seem glad, 
And blithely ripple, murmuring their delight ; 

Tall ships with swelling sail, 

And the weak shallop, hail 
Their guide, and scorn the perils of the night 

Be mine the calm light given 

From the high courts of heaven, 
Then earth's gay flames may glitter or may die ; 

I reck not of her toys, 

Vain hopes and empty joys, 
But bathe me in thy beams, O blest eternity. 

THE MARINER'S MIDNIGHT HYMN. 

O thou, who didst prepare 

The ocean's caverned cell, 
And lead the gathering waters there 

To meet and dwell : 
Tossed in our reeling bark, 

On this tumultuous sea, 
Thy wondrous ways, O Lora, we mark, 
And sing to thee. 
27 



314 CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. 

How terrible art thou, 

In all thy wonders shown, 
Though veiled is that eternal brow, 

Thy steps unknown. 
Invisible to sight, 

But, oh ! to faith how near ; 
Beneath the gloomiest cloud of night 
Thou beamest here. 

Borne on the dark'ning wave 
In measured sweep we go, 
Nor dread th' unfathomable grave 

That yawns below ; 
For He is nigh who trod 

Amid that foaming spray, 
Whose billows owned th' incarnate God, 
And died away. 

Let slumber's balmy seal 

Imprint our tranquil eyes, 
Though deep beneath the waters steal, 

And circling rise. 
Though swells the confluent tide 

And beetles far above, — 
We know in whom our souls confide 
With fearless love. 

Snatched from a darker deep, 
And waves of wilder foam, 
Thou, Lord, those trusting souls wilt keep, 

And waft them home; 
Home, where no tempests sound, 

Nor angry waters roar, 
Nor troublous billows heave around 
The peaceful shore. 



MRS. AMELIA OPIE. 

Her maiden name was Alderlow. She married early John Opie 
(altered from Hoppy), the eminent historical and portrait painter, who 
succeeded Fuseli as lecturer to the Institution, was Professor of Paint- 
ing in the Royal Academy, and died 1807. Mrs. Opie began her lite- 
rary career in 1801 with the publication of a domestic tale, The Fa- 
ther and Daughter, which was followed by a number of others, making 
in all nineteen volumes of pathetic stories, too well known to need our 
comments. About the year 1826, she became, in remarkable contrast 
to her former habits as a writer of romances and the wife and biogra- 
pher of an artist, a member of the Society of Friends, and signalized 
her new faith by her Illustrations of Lying. Though now seldom 
spoken of as a poetical writer, Mrs. Opie published as early as 1802 a 
volume of Miscellaneous Poems, and some of her songs were great 
favourites at the time when the harpsichord had just yielded to the 
piano. In later years a volume of serious poems and a number of scat- 
tered pieces from her pen have appeared. 

Miss Sedgwick {Letters from Abroad, 1841) says : " I owed Mrs. 
Opie a grudge for having made me in my youth cry my eyes out over 
her stories ; but her fair, cheerful face forced me to forget it. She long 
ago forswore the world and its vanities, and adopted the Quaker faith 
and costume ; but I fancied that her elaborate simplicity, and the 
fashionable little train to her pretty satin gown, indicated how much 
easier it is to adopt a theory than to change one's habits." 



Go, youth beloved, to distant glades, 

New friends, new hopes, new joys to find ; 

Yet sometimes deign, midst fairer maids, 
To think on her thou leavest behind. 

Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share, 
Must never be my happy lot; 

Rrt thou mayest grant this humble prayer, 
Forget me not, Forget me not ! 

(315) 



316 MRS. AMELIA OPIE. 

Yet should the thought of my distress 
Too painful to thy feelings be, 

Heed not the wish I now express, 
Nor ever deign to think of me. 

But oh ! if grief thy steps attend, 
If want, or sickness be thy lot, 

And thou require a soothing friend, 

Forget me not, Forget me not ! 



I know you false, I know you vain, 
Yet still I cannot break my chain ; 
Though with those lips so sweetly smiling, 
Those eyes so bright and so beguiling, 
On every youth by turns you smile, 
And every youth by turns beguile, 
Yet still enchant and still deceive me, 
Do all things, fatal fair, but leave me. 

Still let me in those sparkling eyes 

Trace all your feelings as they rise ; 

Still from those lips in crimson swelling 

Which seem of soft delights the dwelling, 

Catch tones of sweetness which the soul 

In fetters ever need control — 

Nor let my starts of passion grieve thee, 

'T were death to stay, 't were death to leave thee. 

ADDRESS TO A DYING FRIEND. 

There is light on the hills, and the valley is past ! 

Ascend, happy pilgrim ! thy labours are o'er ! 
The sunshine of heaven around thee is cast, 

And thy weak doubting footsteps can falter no more. 



MRS. AMELIA OPIE. 317 

On, Pilgrim, that hill richly circled with rays 
Is Zion ! Lo, there is " the city of saints !" 

And the beauties, the glories, that region displays, 
Inspiration's own language imperfectly paints. 

But the " gate of one pearl" to thee opened shall be, 
And thou all its beauties and glories behold : 

The Saviour an entrance has purchased for thee, 
And thy dwelling henceforth is the city of gold. 

The rustling of wings when thou readiest the gate 
Will announce the glad angels the sentinels there : 

Knock, pilgrim ! not long thou for entrance canst wait, 
For spirits like thee to those angels are dear. 

And, perhaps, in the portal, the glorified band 

Of kindred and friends long removed from thy sight, 

Breathing welcome and bliss around thee will stand, 
Arrayed in their garments of heavenly light. 

Transporting re-union ! bright meed of all those 

Who on earth bowed in meekness and faith to the rod, 

Still thankful alike, if the thorn or the rose, 

Was strewed on the pathway that led them to God. 

She has knocked, she has entered ! blest spirit, farewell ; 

We rejoice in thy bliss, though our loss we deplore ; 
It is joy that thou art where the blessed ones dwell; 

But, Oh ! it is grief we behold thee no more. 



27* 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 

Was born in 1789, at Alnsford, Hampshire. Though best known 
and appreciated from her admirable prose sketches of rural life and 
rural scenes, she began her literary career as a poetical writer. Her 
first publication was a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, in 1^10; fol- 
lowed in 1811 by Christine, The Maid of the South Seas (a nautical 
tale of Pitcairn's Island) ; in 1812 by Wattington Hill ( a descriptive 
poem), and Narrative Poems on the Female Characters. After a stu- 
dious retirement of nearly twelve years, she reappeared as a dramatist 
by the production of Julian, a tragedy, the success of which, as a read- 
ing play, encouraged her to pursue her fame with Rienzi, The Vespers 
of Palermo, Foscari, and Charles the First. The first-named three 
were brought on the stage; but Rienzi, certainly the best of them, alone 
met with much favour. She published the first volume of Our Village 
in 1824, which was carried through four more ; the last appearing in 1832. 
Her Belford Regis, a description of a market-town, is characterized by 
the same graphic talent. Miss Mitford's early poems prove the absence 
of an ear for rhythm ; and her sense of natural beauty, so eloquent in prose, 
struggles in vain for expression through the difficulties of rhyme. She 
succeeds better in dramatic verse, and some of her scenes have much 
tragic power. Her study of the Greek dramatists, especially Euripides, is 
often distinctly traceable; and in the address of Claudia to Rienzi, as 
also in that of Annabel to Julian, we find the very thoughts of Iphige- 
nia pleading with Agamemnon. Her prose is simple, natural, and full 
of frank, kind-judging lovingness. Her autumnal landscape has all 
the soft brown beauty, with the exquisite finish of a Cuyp ; and we 
almost hear the rustling of the flags in the summer wind, as she leads 
us to chat with our familiar friend the Basket-maker, by the side of the 
pool. Her sunny spirit makes beautiful with light the most common- 
place scenes, and she has the rare faculty of concealing the coarseness 
of rustic poverty, while she presents the simple graces of homely good- 
feeling and sportive childhood. As a proof that we love her, we love 
her dog ; Walter Scott's stately Ma id a is not more an historical charac- 
ter, than her springing spaniel or Italian greyhound. If she began by 
being prosaic in poetry, she has redeemed herself by being most poetical 

in pastoral prose. 

(318; 



MARY RUSSELL M1TF0RD. 319 



THE CHARM. 

(FROM THE RIVAL SISTERS.) 

It was not beauty ; for, in very truth, 

No symmetry of features decked the maid ; 

Was it the vivid blush of early youth; 

The Hebe lip, whose changeful dimples played, 
The flaxen locks, whose crisped ringlets strayed 

Over the blue dove-like eyes serene and mild ; 
The rose-tipped ringers that her toil betrayed ; 

The rounded form luxuriantly wild, 

Of summer graces full — the face so like a child ? 

Or was it the expression, calm and even, 

Which tells of blest inhabitants within ; 
A look as tranquil as the summer Heaven ; 

A smile that cannot light a face of sin ; 

A sweetness so composed that passion's din 
Its fair unruffled brow has never moved ; 

Beauty not of the features, nor the skin, 
But of the soul, — a loveliness best proved 
By one unerring test, no sooner seen than loved ? 

HER FRIEND. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Yes ! if a friend I sought, it should be one 

Who to such childish pleasures loves to bend ; 
Who seeks the shell upon the sea-beach thrown, 

And the light bud whose shape and colouring blend ; 

Whose feet the wild untrodden vale descend 
To seek the primrose pale, the violet fair, 

The robin's nest from plunderers to defend ; 
With the young brood her simple viands share, 
And smile with blameless joy at each successful care. 



320 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

For good and happy is the glowing breast 

Whence, universal Love, thine essence springs . 
What though wit's cap'ring tribe, fondly unblest, 

Mock at the bliss thy joyous spirit brings ! 

What though they hold the beauties nature flings 
And her free denizens, as parts so small 

Of this fair world, such vile and useless things 
As wisdom scorns and folly dooms to fall ! 
Yet she whom Genius loves has love and care for all 



DEATH SCENE. 

(FROM JULIAN.) 

Julian. Annabel, look forth 

Upon this glorious world ! Look once again 
On our fair Sicily, lit by that sun 
Whose level beams do cast a golden shine 
On sea, and shore, and city, on the pride 
Of bowery groves ; on Etna's smouldering top ; — ■ 
Oh bright and glorious world ! and thou of all 
Created things most glorious, tricked in light, 
As the stars that live in heaven ! 

Annabel. Why dost thou gaze 

So sadly on me ? 

Jul. The bright stars, how oft 

They fall, or seem to fall ! The sun — look ! look ! 
He sinks, he sets in glory. Blessed orb, 
Like thee — like thee — Dost thou remember once 
We sat by the sea shore when all the heaven 
And all the ocean seemed one glow of fire, 
Red, purple, saffron, melted into one 
Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line 
Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that 
Continuous brightness ; there we sate and talked 
Of the mysterious union that blessed orb 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 321 

Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and death — 

High mysteries ! — and thou didst wish thyself 

A spirit sailing in that flood of light 

Straight to the Eternal Gates, didst pray to pass 

Away in such a glory. Annabel! 

Look out upon the burning sky, the sea 

One lucid ruby — 't is the very hour ! 

Thou 'It be a seraph at the Fount of Light 

Before 

Jinn. What, must I die ? And wilt thou kill me ? 
Canst thou ? Thou cam'st to save 

Jul. To save thy honour ! 

I shall die with thee. 

Ann. Oh no ! no ! live ! live ! 

If I must die — oh it is sweet to live, 
To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing blood 
Beat in the veins, — to look on such an earth 
And such a heaven, — to look on thee ! Young life 
Is very dear. 

Jul. Would'st live for D'Alba ? 

Ann. No ! 

I had forgot. I '11 die. Quick ! Quick ! 

Jul. One kiss ! 

Angel, dost thou forgive me ? 

Ann. Yes. 

Jul. My sword ! — 

I cannot draw it. 

Ann. Now ! I 'm ready. 

CLAUDIA PLEADING FOR ANGELO. 

(FKOM RIENZI. ) 

Enter Claudia, hastily. 
Cla. Who dares to stop me ? Father ! 

[Rushes into the arms of Rienzi 
v 



322 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

Rie. I bade ye guard the entrance. 

Cla. Against me ! 
Ye must have men and gates of steel to bar 
Claudia from her dear father. Where is he ? 
They said that he was with you — he — thou know'st 
Whom I would say. I heard ye loud. I thought 
I heard ye; but, perchance, the dizzying throb 
Of my poor temples — Where is he ? I see 
No corse — an 1 he were dead — 'Oh, no, no, no ! 
Thou couldst not, wouldst not ! Say he lives. 

Rie. As yet 

He lives. 

Cla. Oh ! blessing on thy heart, dear father ! 

Blessings on thy kind heart ! When shall I see him ? 
Is he in prison ? Fear hath made me weak, 
And wordless as a child. Oh ! send for him. 
Thou hast pardoned him ; didst thou not say but now 
Thou hadst pardoned him ? 

Rie. No. 

Cla. Oh, thou hast ! thou hast ! 

This is the dalliance thou wast wont to hold 
When I have craved some girlish boon, a bird, 
A flower, a moonlight walk ; but now I ask thee 
Life, more than life. Thou hast pardoned him ? 

Rie. My Claudia! 

Cla. Ay ! I am thine own Claudia, whose first word 
Was father ! These are the same hands that clung 
Around thy knees, a tottering babe ; the lips 
That, ere they had learnt speech, would smile, and seek 
To meet thee with an infant's kiss ; the eyes 
Thou hast called so like my mother's ; eyes that never 
Gazed on thee, but with looks of love. Oh, pardon ! 
Nay, father, speak not yet ; thy brows are knit 
Into a sternness. Pry'thee, speak not yet ! 



MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 323 

Rie. This traitor — 

Cla. Call him as thou wilt, but pardon ; 
Oh, pardon ! [Kneels. 

Rie. He defies me. 

Cla. See, I kneel, 

And he shall kneel, shall kiss thy feet •, wilt pardon ? 

Rie. Mine own dear Claudia. 

Cla. Pardon ! 

Rie. Raise thee up ; 

Rest on my bosom ; let thy beating heart 
Lie upon mine ; so shall the mutual pang 
Be stilled. Oh ! that thy father's soul could bear 
This grief for thee, my sweet one ! Oh, forgive — 

Cla. Forgive thee what ? 'T is so the headsman speaks 
To his poor victim, ere he strikes. Do fathers 
Make widows of their children ? send them down 
To the cold grave heart-broken ? Tell me not 
Of fathers — I have none ! All else that breathes 
Hath known that natural love : The wolf is kind 
To her vile cubs ; the little wren hath care 
For each small youngling of her brood ; and thou — 
The word that widowed, orphaned me ? Henceforth 
My home shall be his grave ; and yet thou canst not — 
Father ! [Rushing into RienzPs arms. 

Rie. Ay! 

Dost call me father, once again, my Claudia ? 
Mine own sweet child ! 

Cla. Oh, father pardon him ! 
Oh pardon ! pardon ! 'T is my life I ask 
In his. Our lives, dear father ! 



324 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 



SONG. 



WELCOME TO A ER1DE. 



Hail to the gentle bride ! the dove 

High nested in the column's crest ! 
Oh, welcome as the bird of love 

Who bore the olive sign of rest ! 

Hail to the bride! 

Hail to the gentle bride! the flower 

Whose garlands round the column twine ! 

Oh! fairer than the citron bower! 

More fragrant than the blossomed vine ! 

Hail to the bride ! 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the star 

Whose radiance o'er the column beams ! 

Oh, soft as moonlight, seen afar, 
A silver shine on trembling streams ! 

Hail to the bride ! 



DOROTHEA PRIMROSE CAMPBELL, OF 
ZETLAND. 

This lady seems to have made the acquaintance of Walter Scott, 
during his visit, in July 1814, to the Shetland or Zetland isles, where 
she resided at Lerwick; and in 1816 she dedicated to him, with his 
permission, a volume of Poems, rather pleasing in their character and 
chiefly suggested by the wild, rough scenery around her native home. — 
We give one or two extracts from this Ultima Thule of our range : 

ADDRESS TO ZETLAND. 

" The land of Cakes" * has oft been sung 
In many a poet's strain ; 
But never might the '•' land of Fish" 
Such proud distinction gain. 

Oft wandering by thy sea-beach shore 

I wooed the pensive Muse ; 
Nor will the Genii of thy rocks, 

This votive lay refuse. 

Laxford dear, thy barren hills 
Fond mem'ry still must love ; 

To thee my wand'ring fancy turns, 
Where'er my footsteps rove. 

1 dreamed not that a fairer spot 
On earth's broad bosom lay ; 

Nor ever wished my wand'ring feet 
Beyond its bounds to stray. 

And when I read of fairer fields 

Beyond the northern main ; 
And tow'ring trees, whose leafy arms 

Spread o'er the flow'ry plain ; 

* Scotland. 
28 (325) 



326 DOROTHEA PRIMROSE CAMPBELL 

Of rivers, through the verdant vale 

Meandering smooth and clear; 
Or when cascades their torrents dash, 

O'er precipices drear; 

I read — and fancy clothed thy steeps 

With darkling groves of pine ; 
Bright bloomed thy flow'rs, smooth flowed thy streams 

And ev'ry charm was thine. 

Soft on the weedy sea-beach stole 

The wave with murmur low ; 
And o'er the undulating tide 

Serener Zephyrs blow. 



MOONLIGHT. 

The winds of heaven are hushed and mild 
As the breath of slumbering child; 
The western bugle's balmy sigh 
Breaks not the mist-wreaths, as they lie 
Veiling the tall cliff's rugged brow, 
Nor dimple the green waves below. 
Such stillness round, — such silence deep — 
That nature seems herself to sleep. 
The full moon, mounted in the sky, 
Looks from her cloudless place on high. 
And trembling stars, like fairy gleams, 
Twinkle their many-coloured beams, 
Spangling the world of waters o'er 
With mimic gems from shore to shore ; 
Till ocean, burning on the view, 
Glows like another heav'n of blue, 
And its broad bosom as a mirror bright, 
Reflects their lucid path and all the fields of light. 



MRS. SOUTHEY, 

(CAROLINE BOWLES.) 

Caroline Anne Bowles was a sister of the Rev. William Bowles, 
for many years known to the public as the writer of very pleasing 
because nature-loving', unaffected and fine verses. In 1839, when past 
forty years of age, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to 
whose declining and infirm age she ministered with devoted kindness, 
the offspring of kindred taste and admiring affection. She survives 
him. She has written several works which have won for her much 
favour in both her own and this country. Ellen Fitzarthur, 1820 ; The 
Widow's Tale and other Poems, 1822; The Birth-Day and other 
Poems, 1836; a Collection of Prose and Poetical Pieces, Solitary 
Hours, &c. From the last named, we give some of her best verses. 

AUTUMN FLOWERS. 

Those few pale Autumn flowers ! 

How beautiful they are ! 
Than all that went before, 
Than all the Summer store, 

How lovelier far ! 

And why ? — They are the last — 
The last! — the last! — the last! — 

O, by that little word, 

How many thoughts are stirred ! 
That sister of the past ! 

Pale flowers! — pale perishing flowers! 

Ye 're types of precious things ; 
Types of those bitter moments 
That flit, like life's enjoyments, 

On rapid, rapid wings. 

1 r & (327) 



328 MRS. SOUTHEY. 


Last hours with parting dear ones 


(That time the fastest spends), 


Last tears, in silence shed, 


Last words, half-uttered, 


Last looks of dying friends ! 


Who but would fain compress 


A life into a day ; 


The last day spent with one, 


Who, ere the morrow's sun, 


Must leave us and for aye ? 


0, precious, precious moments ! 


Pale flowers ! ye 're types of those — • 


The saddest! sweetest! dearest! 


Because, like those, the nearest 


Is an eternal close. 


Pale flowers ! pale perishing flowers •' 


I woo your gentle breath ; 


I leave the summer rose 


For younger, blither brows, 


Tell me of change and death! 


TO A DYING INFANT. 


Sleep, little baby! sleep! 


Not in thy cradle bed, 


Not on thy mother's breast 


Henceforth shall be thy rest, 


But with the quiet dead. 


Yes, with the quiet dead, 


Baby ! thy rest shall be — 


Oh ! many a weary wight, 


Weary of life and light, 


Would fain lie down with thee ! 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 329 

Flee, little tender mvrsling! 

Flee to thy grassy nest — 
There the first flowers shall blow, 
The first pure flake of snow 

Shall fall upon thy breast. 

Peace ! peace ! the little bosom 

Labours with shortening breath. 
Peace ! peace ! that tremulous sigh 
Speaks his departure nigh — 

Those are the damps of Death. 

I 've seen thee in thy beauty, 

A thing all health and glee ; 
But never then, wert thou 
So beautiful, as now, 

Baby ! thou seem'st to me. 

Thine upturned eyes glazed over 

Like harebells wet with dew — 
Already veiled and hid 
By the convulsed lid, 

Their pupils darkly blue. 

Thy little mouth half open, 

The soft lip quivering, 
As if, like summer air, 
Ruffling the rose-leaves, there 

Thy soul were fluttering. 

Mount up, immortal essence ! 

Young spirit! hence — depart! 
And is this Death ? Dread thing ! 
If such thy visiting, 

How beautiful thou art ! 
28* 



330 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Oh ! I could gaze for ever 

Upon that waxen face, 
So passionless ! so pure ! 
The little shrine was sure 

An angel's dwelling-place. 

Thou weepest, childless mother' 

Ay, weep — 't will ease thine heart , 
He was thy first-born son — 
Thy first, thine only one ; 
'T is hard from him to part. 

'T is hard to lay thy darling 
Deep in the damp cold earth, 

His empty crib to see, 

His silent nursery, 

Late ringing with his mirth. 

To meet again in slumber 

His small mouth's rosy kiss, 
Then — wakened with a start 
By thine own throbbing heart — 
His twining arms to miss. 

And then to lie and weep, 
And think the livelong night 

(Feeding thine own distress 

With accurate greediness) 
Of every past delight. 

Of all his winning ways, 

His pretty, playful smiles, 
His joy at sight of thee, 
His tricks, his mimickry, 
And all his little wiles. 



MRS. SOUTIIEY. 

Oh ! these are recollections 

Round mothers' hearts that cling ! 
That mingle with the tears 
And smiles of after years, 

With oft awakening. 

But thou wilt then, fond mother, 

In after years, look back 
(Time brings such wondrous easing) 
With sadness not unpleasing, 

Even on this gloomy track. 

Thou 'It say, " My first-born blessing ! 

It almost broke my heart, 
When thou wert forced to go, 
And yet for thee, I know 

'T was better to depart. 

"God took thee in his mercy, 
A lamb untasked — untried — 
He fought the field for thee — 
He won the victory — 
And thou art sanctified. 

« I look around, and see 

The evil ways of men, 
And oh, beloved child ! 
I'm more than reconciled 

To thy departure then. 

"The little arms that clasped me, 
The innocent lips that pressed, 
Would they have been as pure 
Till now, as when of yore 
I lull'd thee on my breast? 



331 



332 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

"Now, like a dewdrop shrined 
Within a crystal stone, 

Thou 'rt safe in heaven, my dove ! 

Safe with the Source of love. 
The everlasting One ! 

" And when the hour arrives, 
From flesh that sets me free, 
Thy spirit may await 
The first at heaven's gate, 
To meet and welcome me." 



I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY 

I never cast a flower away, 

The gift of one who cared for me — 
A little flower — a faded flower — 

But it was done reluctantly. 

I never looked a last adieu 

To things familiar, but my heart 

Shrank with a feeling almost pain 
Even from their lifelessness to part. 

I never spoke the word " Farewell," 
But with an utterance faint and broken 5 

An earth-sick longing for the time 
When it shall never more be spoken. 



THE PRIMROSE. 

I saw it in my evening walk, 
A little lonely flower! 

Under a hollow bank it grew, 
Deep in a mossy bower. 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 333 

An oak's gnarled root, to roof the cave 

With Gothic fretwork sprung, 
Whence jewelled fern, and arum leaves, 

And ivy garlands hung. 

And from beneath came sparkling out 

From a fall'n tree's old shell, 
A little rill, that dipt about 

The lady in her cell. 

And there, methought, with bashful pride. 

She seemed to sit and look 
On her own maiden loveliness, 

Pale imaged in the brook. 

No other flower — no rival grew 

Beside my pensive maid ; 
She dwelt alone, a cloistered nun, 

In solitude and shade. 

No sunbeam on that fairy well 

Darted its dazzling light — 
Only, methought, some clear, cold star 

Might tremble there at night. 

No ruffling wind could reach her there — 

No eye, methought, but mine, 
Or the young lamb's that came to drink, 

Had spied her secret shrine. 

And there was pleasantness to me 

In such belief. Cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature's lowliness, 

Profane her mysteries. 



334 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Long time I looked and lingered there, 
Absorbed in still delight — 

My spirit drank deep quietness 
In, with that quiet sight. 



AU RA V E NI. 

Balmy freshness ! heavenly air, 

Cool, oh ! cool this burning brow \ 

Loose the fiery circlet there — 
Blessed thing ! I feel ye now. 

Blessed thing ! depart not yet, 

Let me, let me quaff my fill, 
Leave me not my soul to fret, 

Gasping for what mocks me still. 

Oh ! the weary, weary nights 

I 've lain awake and thought of thee ; 
Of clouds and corn — and all sweet sights, 

Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree \ 

Of running waters, rippling clear, 

Of greenwood glen, and gipsy camp ; 

Then how J loathed to see and hear 
That ticking watch, that sickly lamp ; 

And longed, at least for light again, 

For day — that brought no change to me • 

The weight was on my heart and brain ; 
God might remove it — only He. 

And now and then the fount of tears, 
So seeming dry, was free to flow ; 

'T was worth a score of joyous years, 
That short-lived luxury of woe. 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 335 

And in the midst of all my pain, 

1 knew I was not quite forgot, 
I knew my cry was not in vain, 

So I was sad, but fainted not. 

And now the merciful command 

Has lightened what was worst to bear, 
And given of better clays at hand 

A foretaste in this blessed air. 



THE LAST JOURNEY. 

Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which 
he met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — "The procession 
we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a 
few steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus before the doors of 
their friends to bid them a last farewell, and before those of their ene- 
mies to effect a reconciliation before they parted for ever." — Correspond- 
ence d'Orient, par MM. Michaud et Poujoulat. 

Slowly, with measured tread, 
Onward we bear the dead 

To his long home. 
Short grows the homeward road, 
On with your mortal load. 

O Grave ! we come. 

Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not 
Past each familiar spot 

Where he hath been ; 
Where late he walked in glee, 
There from henceforth to be 

Never more seen. 

Yet, yet — ah! slowly move — 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 



336 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun leave on him 
Last looks of light. 

Rest ye — set down the bier, 
One he loved dwelleth here. 

Let the dead lie 
A moment that door beside, 
Wont to fly open wide 

Ere he came nigh. 

Hearken ! — he speaketh yet. — 
"Oh, friend! wilt thou forget 

(Friend more than brother p 
How hand in hand we've gone, 
Heart with heart linked in one — 

All to each other ? 

" Oh, friend ! I go from thee, 
Where the worm feasteth free, 

Darkly to dwell — 
Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 
Friend ! is it come to this ? 

Oh, friend, farewell !" 

Uplift your load again, 

Take up the mourning strain! 

Pour the deep wail ! 
Lo ! the expected one 
To his place passeth on — 

Grave ! bid him hail. 

Yet, yet — ah ! — slowly move ; 
Bear not the form we love 

Fast from our sight — 
Let the air breathe on him, 
And the sun leave on him 

Last looks of light. 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 337 

Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
Lay the departed low, 

E'en at his gate. — 
Will the dead speak again ? 
Uttering proud boasts and vain, 

Last words of hate ? 

Lo ! the dead lips unclose — 
List ! list ! what sounds are those, 

Plaintive and low ? 
" Oh thou, mine enemy ! 
Come forth and look on me 

Ere hence 1 go. 

" Curse not thy foeman now — 
Mark ! on his pallid brow 

Whose seal is set! 
Pard'ning I past away — 
Thou — wage not war with clay — 

Pardon — forget." 

Now his last labour 's done ! 
Now, now the goal is won ! 

Oh, Grave ! we come. 
Seal up this precious dust — 
Land of the good and just, 

Take the soul home ! 

TO DEATH. 

Come not in terrors clad, to claim 

An unresisting prey — 
Come like an evening shadow, Death ! 

So stealthily ! so silently : 
And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath — 
Then willingly — oh! willingly 
With thee I '11 go away. 
29 w" 



338 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

What need to clutch with iron grasp 
What gentlest touch may take ? 

What need, with aspect dark, to scare 
So awfully — so terribly, 

The weary soul would hardly care, 
Called quietly, called tenderly, 
From thy dread power to break ? 

'Tis not as when thou markest out 
The young — the blest — the gay; 

The loved, the loving; they who dream 
So happily, so hopefully ; 

Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, 
And shrinkingly — reluctantly 
The summoned may obey. 

But I have drunk enough of life 
(The cup assigned to me 

Dashed with a little sweet at best. 
So scantily — so scantily) — 

To know full well that all the rest, 
More bitterly — 'more bitterly 
Drugged to the last will be : — 

And I may live to pain some heart 
That kindly cares for me — 

To pain, but not to bless. O Death .' 
Come quietly — come lovingly, 

And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; 
Then willingly — oh! willingly 
With thee I'll go away. 



ARY IIOWITT 



Delights best to be known as the wife of William Howitt, whom 
she styles : " My best Counsellor and Teacher ; my literary Associate 
for a quarter of a century; my Husband and my Friend." She early 
acquired from an old domestic, a love for ballad poetry, which was 
strengthened after her marriage, while yet young, by Percy's Reliques 
and other books of the kind in her husband's library. In 1823, a few 
years after their union, her husband and herself published jointly two 
volumes of poems ; and "then," she herself says, " giving vent to my 
own peculiar fancies, I again took to writing ballads, which were pub- 
lished in the various periodicals of the day, and the favourable reception 
they met with gave me the greatest encouragement." In 1834 she 
attempted a higher flight, aiming at more dramatic effect, in her Seven 
Temptations ; the charitable purpose of which was, "to induce a more 
lenient judgment of our fellow erring mortals ; for we see the awful 
mass of sorrow and of crime in the world, but we know only in part — 
in a very small degree — the fearful weight of solicitations and im- 
pulses of passion, and the vast constraint of circumstances, that are 
brought into play against suffering humanity. . . . Thus, without suffi- 
cient reflection, we are furnished with data on which to condemn our 
fellow-creatures, but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and 
commiseration." The work was more severely criticised than it de- 
served, although it is far from exhibiting the genuine merit of her 
smaller pieces. Mrs. Howitt's ballads are worthy of the estimation in 
which they are held ; they are among the very best, excepting Macau- 
lay's, of modern times. She has since published several volumes, and 
promises more, all manifesting "that love of Christ, of the poor, and of 
little children, which always was and will be a ruling sentiment of her 
soul." The path she has chosen is that best fitted for the feet of wo- 
man, and she walks in it with a matronly, kindly grace which wins the 
loving admiration of all whose esteem is worth the having. Mrs. Howitt's 
is a remarkable exception to the ordinary lot of gifted women, her mar- 
ried life having been one of great happiness, her own and her husband's 
tastes blending in a harmony which has made their home delightful, 

(330) 



340 MARY HO WITT. 

and their hours full of good fruits ; though we are sorry to trace in 
some of his later productions an occasional peevishness and sarcasm, 
the consequence, perhaps, of rapid book-making for the sake of gain. 



TIBBIE INGLIS, OR THE SCHOLAR'S WOOING. 

Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 

Through sun and stormy weather, 
She kept upon the broomy hills 

Her father's flock together. 

Sixteen summers had she seen, 

A rose-bud just unsealing, 
Without sorrow, without fear, 

In her mountain shieling. 

She was made for happy thoughts, 
For playful wit and laughter, 

Singing on the hills alone, 
With echo singing after. 

She had hair as deeply black 

As the cloud of thunder ; 
She had brows so beautiful, 

And dark eyes flashing under. 

Bright and witty shepherd girl ! 

Beside a mountain water 
I found her, whom a king himself 

Would proudly call his daughter. 

She was sitting 'mong the crags, 
Wild and mossed and hoary, 

Reading in an ancient book 
Some old martyr story. 



MARY HOWITT, 34 1 

Tears were starting to her eyes, 

Solemn thought was o'er her; 
When she saw in that lone place 

A stranger stand before her. 

Crimson was her sunny cheek, 

And her lips seemed moving 
With the beatings of her heart — 

How could I help loving! 

On a crag I sat me down, 

Upon the mountain hoary, 
And made her read again to me 

That old pathetic story. 

Then she sang me mountain songs, 

Till the air was ringing 
With her clear and warbling voice 

Like a sky-lark singing. 

And when eve came on at length. 

Among the blooming heather, 
We herded on the mountain side 

Her father's flock together. 

And near unto her father's house 

I said " Good night" with sorrow 
And inly wished that I might say, 
" We '11 meet again to-morrow !" 

I watched her tripping to her home ; 
I saw her meet her mother ; 
" Among a thousand maids," I cried, 
"There is not such another!" 

I wandered to my scholar's home, 

It lonesome looked and dreary ; 
I took my books but could not read, 

Methought that I was weary. 
29* 



342 MARY HO WITT. 

I laid me down upon my bed, 
My heart with sadness laden ; 

I dreamed but of the mountain wild, 
And of the mountain maiden. 

I saw her of her ancient book 
The pages turning slowly ; 

I saw her lovely crimson cheek, 
And dark eye drooping lowly. 

The dream was, like the day's delight, 
A life of pain's o'erpayment. 

I rose, and with unwonted care 
Put on my sabbath-raiment. 

To none I told my secret thoughts, 
Not even to my mother, 

Nor to the friend who, from my youth, 
Was dear as is a brother. 

I got me to the hills again, 
The little flock was feeding, 

And there young Tibbie Inglis sate, 
But not the old book reading. 

She sate, as if absorbing thought 
With heavy spells had bound her, 

As silent as the mossy crags 
Upon the mountains round her. 

I thought not of my sabbath dress ; 

I thought not of my learning; 
I thought but of the gentle maid, 

Who, I believed, was mourning. 

Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 

How her beauty brightened, 
Looking at me, half-abashed, 

With eyes that flashed and lightened ! 



MARY HO WITT. 

There was no sorrow then I saw, 
There was no thought of sadness. 

Oh life ! what after-joy hast thou 
Like love's first certain gladness I 

I sate me down among the crags, 

Upon the mountain hoary; 
But read not then the ancient book, — 

Love was our pleasant story. 

And then she sang me songs again, 
Old songs of love and sorrow, 

For our sufficient happiness 

Great charm from woe could borrow. 

And many hours we talked in joy, 
Yet too much blessed for laughter : 

I was a happy man that day, 
And happy ever after! 

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW. 

A MIDSUMMER LE&END. 

" And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me ?" 

" I 've been to the top of the Caldon Low, 
The midsummer night to see !" 

" And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Low ?■" 
" I saw the glad sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow." 

" And what did you hear, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Hill ?" 
•' I heard the drops of the water made, 

And the ears of the green corn fill." 



343 



344 MARY HOWITT. 

"Oh! tell me all, my Mary, 

All, all that ever you know, 
For you must have seen the fairies, 
Last night, on the Caldon Low." 

" Then take me on your knee, mother , 
And listen, mother of mine. 
A hundred fairies danced last night, 
And the harpers they were nine. 

" And their harp-strings rung so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small ; 
But oh ! the words of their talking 
Were merrier far than all." 

" And what were the words, my Mary, 
That then you heard them say ?" 

" I '11 tell you all, my mother ; 
But let me have my way. 

" Some of them played with the water, 
And rolled it down the hill ; 

' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn 
The poor old miller's mill : 

" ' For there has been no water 
Ever since the first of May; 
And a busy man will the miller be 
At dawning of the day. 

"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh 
Till the tears fill both his eyes." 

" Ar.d some they seized the little winds 
That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn unto his mouth, 
And blew both loud and shrill : 



MARY HO WITT. 345 

" ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go 
Away from every horn ; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 
From the blind old widow's corn. 
" ; Oh ! the poor, blind widow, 

Though she has been blind so long, 
She '11 be blithe enough when the mildew ; s gone, 
And the corn stands tall and strong.' 

" And some they brought the brown lint-seed, 

And flung it down from the Low ; 
' And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise, 

In the weaver's croft shall grow. 

" ' Oh ! the poor, lame weaver, 
How he will laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 
All full of flowers by hight !' 

" And then outspoke a brownie, 

With a long beard on his chin ; 
' I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 
' And I want some more to spin. 

" ' I 've spun a piece of hempen cloth, 
And I want to spin another ; 
A little sheet for Mary's bed, 
And an apron for her mother.' 

" With that I could not help but laugh, 
And I laughed out loud and free ; 
And then on the top of the Caldon Low 
There was no one left but me. 

" And all on the top of the Caldon Low 
The mists were cold and grey, 
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones 
That round about me lay. 



346 MARY HO WITT. 

" But, coming down from the hill-top, 
I heard afar below, 
How busy the jolly miller was, 
And how the wheel did go. 

" And I peeped into the widow's field, 
And, sure enough, were seen 
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn, 
All standing stout and green. 

" And down to the weaver's croft I stole, 
To see if the flax were sprung ; 
But I met the weaver at his gate, 
With the good news on his tongue. 

" Now this is all I heard, mother, 
And all that I did see ; 
So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother, 
For I 'm tired as 1 can be." 



THE BOY OF HEAVEN. 

One summer eve, seven little boys 

Were playing at the ball, 
Seven little boys so beautiful, 

Beside a castle wall. 

And whilst they played, another came, 
And stood among them there ; 

A little boy, with gentle eyes, 
And thick and curling hair. 

The clothes he on his body wore 
Were linen fine and white ; 

The. girdle that was round his waist 
Was like the morning light. 



MARY HOWITT. 347 

A little while he looked on them, 

Looked lovingly, and smiled, 
When unto him the eldest said, 
" Whence comest thou, fair child ? 

" Art thou the son of some great king, 
And in a hidden place 
Hast been concealed ; for until now 
I never saw thy face ? 

" Dost dwell among the lonely hills, 
Or in the forest low ; 
Or dost thou chase the running deer, 
A hunter with thy bow ? 

" And tell us what wild, woodland name 

Have they unto thee given ?" 
" They called me Willie," said he, " on earth ; 

They call me so in heaven. 

" My father with King David dwells, 
In the land of heaven dwells he ; 
And my gentle mother, meek and mild, 
Sits at the Virgin's knee. 

" Seven years ago to heaven we went, 
'T was in the winter chill, 
When icy cold the winds did blow, 
And mists were on the hill. 

" But, when we reached the land of heaven, 
'T was like a summer's day, 
The skies were blue, and fragrant flowers 
All round about us lay. 

" The land of heaven is beautiful : 
There no cold wind doth blow ; 
And fairer apples than e'er ye saw 
Within its gardens grow. 



348 MARY HOWITT. 

" 1 've seen the patriarchs face to face ; 
The wise of every land ; 
And with the heavenly little ones 
Have wandered, hand in hand. 

" Down by the golden streams of life, 
All through the forests old, 
And o'er the boundless hills of heaven 
The sheep of God's own fold." 

Then up and spoke a little boy, 
The youngest of the seven : 
" My mother is dead, so let me go 
With thee, dear child, to heaven. 

" My mother is dead, and my father loves 
His dogs far more than me ; 
No one would miss me if I went : 
Oh, let me go with thee ! 

"No one would miss me if 1 went; 
Dame Bertha loves me not; 
And for old crabbed Hildebrand 
I do not care a jot." 

" Alas !" the heavenly child replied, 
" That home thou canst not win, 
If thou have an ill word on thy tongue, 
Or in thy heart a sin. 

"The way is long and wearisome, 
Through peril great it lies : 
With any sin upon thy soul 

From earth thou couldst not rise. 

"There are waters deep and wild to pass; 
And who hath a load of sin, 
Like the heavy rock that will not float, 
Is tumbled headlong in. 



MARY HO WITT. 349 

" There are red and raging fires to pass ; 
And like the iron stone 
Is sin ; red-hot as a burning share, 
It scorcheth to the bone. 

" Darest go with me ? Wilt try the path, 
Now thou its pain dost know ?" 
The motherless boy turned round and wept, 
And said, " I dare not go." 

The boy of heaven to a chamber came 

Ere rosy day was peeping, 
And marvelled if his sister 't were 

Who on the ground lay sleeping. 

She used to have a bed of down, 

And silken curtains bright ; 
But he knew her by her dainty foot, 

And little hand so white ; 

He knew her by the long fair hair 

That on her shoulders lay, 
Though the pleasant things about the room 

Were taken all away. 

And " Oh !" sighed he, " my sister dear, 

Art thou left all alone ?" 
Just then she spoke in troubled dreams, 

And made a gentle moan. 

" They have ta'en from me my bed of down, 
And given me straw instead ; 
They have ta'en from me the wheaten cakes, 
And given me barley bread. 

k 'The pearls which my dear mother wore 

They have ta'en from me away, 

And the little book with silver clasps 

Wherefrom I learned to pray. 
30 



350 MARY HO WITT. 

"My heart is grown as heavy as lead, 
And pale and thin my cheek; 
I sit in corners of the house, 
And hardly dare to speak. 

" For they are stern, and love me not ; 
No gentle hearts are here. 
I wish I were in heaven above, 
With my own brother dear!" 

Then Willie bent down unto the ground, 

And knelt upon his knee ; 
He breathed heaven's breath upon her lips, 

And gave her kisses three. 

And tenderly he looked on her, 
And yet he looked not long, 

Ere he spoke three words into her ear, 
Three awful words and strong. 

Then Annie rose from her bed of straw 

A joyful angel bright, 
And the chamber, late so dark and drear, 

Was full of heavenly light. 

Amazed she looked one moment's space, 
One moment made a stand ; 

But she knew it all in a moment more, 
And away to the heavenly land, 

Like the morning lark when it rises up, 
Went they two hand in hand. 

beatrice. 

a lover's lay. 

Gentle, happy Beatrice, 
Visioned fair before me, 

How can it a wonder be 
That many so adore thee ? 



MARY HO WITT. 351 

Old and young, and great and wise, 

Set their love upon thee ; 
And, if gold thy heart could win, 

Gold long since had won thee. 

Social, cheerful Beatrice, 

Like a plenteous river 
Is the current of thy joy, 

Flowing on for ever. 

Many call themselves thy friends; 

Thou art loved of many ; 
And, where'er the fair are met, 

Fairest thou of any. 

Pious, duteous Beatrice, 

All good angels move thee ; 
Meek and gentle as a saint, 

Most for this we love thee. 

I can see thee going forth 

Innocent and lowly, 
Knowing not how good thou art, 

Like an angel holy : 

See thee at thy father's side, 

In thy wondrous beauty, 
Gladdening that benign old man 

With cheerful love and duty. 

I can see his happy smile 

As he gazes on thee ; 
1 can feel the boundless love 

That he showers upon thee. 

What a happy house thou mak'st, 

Singing in thy gladness 
Snatches of delicious song, 

Full of old love-sadness ! 



352 MARY HO WITT. 

How I sit and hold my breath 
When the air is winging, 

From some far-off pleasant room, 
Breathings of thy singing! 

How I listen for thy foot, 
I know it stepping airy, 

On the stair or overhead, 
Like a lightsome fairy ! 

What a happy house it is 

Where thou hast thy dwelling! 

There, love, joy, and kindliness 
Evermore are welling. 

Every one within the house 
Loves to talk about thee ; 

What an altered place it were, 
Beatrice, without thee ! 

I can see thee when I list, 

In thy beauty shining, 
Leaning from the casement ledge 

Where the rose is twining. 

I can see thee looking down, 
The little linnet feeding; 

Or, sitting quietly apart, 

Some sweet volume reading. 

Would I were beside thee, 
The pages turning over, 

I 'd find some cunning word or two 
That should my heart discover! 

I would not heed thy laughter wild, 
Laugh on, I could withstand thee ; 

The printed book should tell my tale, 
And thou shouldst understand me. 



MARY HO WITT. 353 

I know thy arts, my Beatrice, 

So lovely, so beguiling, 
The mockery of thy merry wit, 

The witchery of thy smiling. 

I know thee for a siren strong, 

That smites all hearts with blindness, 

And I might tremble for myself, 
But for thy loving-kindness. 

But for the days of by-gone years, 

When I was as thy brother; 
Ah! we, my faithful Beatrice, 

Were meant for one another. 

I'll straightway up this very day, 

And ask thee of thy father : 
And all the blessings life can give 

In wedded life we '11 gather ! 



FATHER IS COMING. 

The clock is on the stroke of six, 
The father's work is done ; 

Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire, 
And put the kettle on. 

The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 

'T is dreary crossing o'er the wold. 

He is crossing o'er the wold apace, 
He is stronger than the storm ; 

He does not feel the cold, not he, 
His heart it is so warm. 

For father's heart is stout and true 

As ever human bosom knew. 
30* x 



354 MARY HO WITT. 

He makes all toil, all hardship light: 
Would all men were the same ! 

So ready to be pleased, so kind, 
So very slow to blame ! 

Folks need not be unkind, austere. 

For love hath readier will than fear. 

Nay, do not close the shutters, child ; 

For far along the lane 
The little window looks, and he 

Can see it shining plain. 
I 've heard him say he loves to mark 
The cheerful firelight through the dark. 

And we'll do all that father likes; 

His wishes are so few, 
Would they were more ! that every hour 

Some wish of his I knew ! 
I 'm sure it makes a happy day, 
When I can please him any way. 

I know he's coming by this sign, 

That baby 's almost wild ; 
See how he laughs and crows and stares — ■ 

Heaven bless the merry child ! 
He's father's self in face and limb, 
And father's heart is strong in him. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear his footsteps now ; 

He 's through the garden gate. 
Run, little Bess, and ope the door, 

And do not let him wait. 
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, 
For father on the threshold stands. 



r 



MARY HOWITT. 


355 


JUDGMENT. 




Name her not, the guilty one, 




Virtue turns aside for shame 




At the mention of her name: 




Very evilly hath she done. 




Pity is on her misspent : 




She was born of guilty kin, 




Her life's course hath guilty been ; 




Never unto school she went, 




And whate'er she learned was sin ; 




Let her die ! 





She was nurtured for her fate ; 

Beautiful she was, and vain ; 

Like a child of sinful Cain, 
She was born a reprobate. 
Lives like hers the world defile ; 

Plead not for her, let her die, 

As the child of infamy, 
Ignorant and poor and vile, 

Plague-spot in the public eye; 

Let her die ! 

THE HEAKT OF THE OUTCAST. 

I am young, alas ! so young ; 

And the world has been my foe ; 

And by hardship, wrong, and woe, 
Hath my bleeding heart been stung. 
There was none, O God ! to teach me 

What was wrong and what was right. 

I have sinned before thy sight-, 
Let my cry of anguish reach thee, 

Piercing through the glooms of night, 
God of love ! 



356 MARY HOWITT. 


Man is cruel, and doth smother 


Tender mercy in his breast ; 


Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed ; 


Pities not an erring brother, 


Pities not the stormy throes 


Of the soul despair hath riven, 


Nor the brain to madness driven. 


No one but the sinner knows 


What it means to be forgiven, 


God of love! 


Therefore will I put my trust 


In thy mercy : and I cleave 


To that love which can forgive ; 


To that judgment which is just; 


Which can pity all my weakness; 


Which hath seen the life-long strife 


Of passions fiercer than the knife ; 


Known the desolating bleakness 


Of my desert path through life, 


God of love J 


I must perish in my youth; 


And had I been better taught, 


And did virtue as it ought, 


And had grey-haired wisdom ruth, 


I should not have fallen so low. 


'Tis the power of circumstance, 


'T is the wretch's dire mischance, 


To be born to sin and woe. 


Pity thou my ignorance, 


God of love! 



MARY HO WITT . 



VILLAGE CHILDREN. 

Like the wild birds on the trees, 
Like the winged autumn breeze, 
Like whate'er has life and gladness, 
Unallied to thought and sadness, 
Are ye, children blithe and boon, 
Shouting to the harvest-moon : 
And your joy, like waters free, 
Bubbles forth perpetually. 
Naught ye heed that ye must toil, 
Sons and daughters of the soil ; 
That within this quiet place 
Ye must run your simple race, 
Never know the stir and strife 
Of a loftier, nobler life ; 
That your bones, where ye have played, 
By your fathers' shall be laid. 
Naught ye care for learning vain, 
Which but dulleth pulse and brain ; 
Ye are neither deep nor wise ; 
Ye shall ne'er philosophize. 
Lowly ones, that matters not, 
Doth not gloom your humble lot, 
Doth not make one ray depart 
From the sunshine of your heart. 

Happy children ! here ye run 
Gaily in the summer's sun ; 
'Neath this village tree ye play ; 
Down these shadowy lanes ye stray, 
Gathering flowers, or singing wild 
To some younger laughing child. 
Tis a kindly life ye lead; 
Such as poet hath decreed 



357 



358 MARY HO WITT. 

To that earlier, happy time, 

Ere the earth was gloomed by crime. 

Simple ones, and full of gladness, 
Ye shall school my spirit's sadness. 
Never-ending joy ye find 
In your own contented mind ; 
Sending not your spirits out 
Searching wearily about 
For ideal things, that lie 
Nowhere underneath the sky. 
I, like you, will find delight 
On the left hand and the right, 
Nor o'erlook the treasure sweet 
Which is lying at my feet. 

Children, though untaught ye be, 
Thus ye shall be guides to me. 



THE FISHING BOAT. 

GOING OUT. 

Briskly blows the evening gale, 

Fresh and free it blows ; 
Blessings on the fishing-boat, 

How merrily she goes ! 
Christ he loved the fishermen ; 

Walking by the sea, 
How he blessed the fishing-boats 

Down in Galilee ! 
Dark the night, and wild the wave, 

Christ the boat is keeping ; 
Trust in him, and have no fear, 

Though he seemeth sleeping. 



MARY HOWITT. 

COMING IN. 

Briskly blows the morning breeze, 

Fresh and strong it blows ; 
Blessings on the fishing-boat, 

How steadily she goes! 
Christ he loved the fishermen ; 

And he blessed the net 
Which the hopeless fishers threw 

In Geneserat. 
He has blessed our going out, 

Blessed too our returning; 
Given us laden nets at night, 

And fair wind in the morning. 

REJOICING IN HEAVEN. 

Young spirit, freed from bondage, 
Rejoice! Thy work is done; 

The weary world is 'neath thy feet ; 
Thou, brighter than the sun. 

Arise, put on the garments 

Which the redeemed win. 
Now, sorrow hath no part in thee, 

Thou, sanctified from sin. 

Awake, and breathe the living air 

Of our celestial clime! 
Awake to love which knows no change, 

Thou, who hast done with time ! 

Awake ! Lift up thy joyful eyes, 
See, all heaven's host appears; 

And be thou glad exceedingly, 
Thou, who hast done with tears. 



359 



360 FRANCES BROWN. 

Awake ! descend ! Thou art not now 
With those of mortal birth ; 

The living God hath touched thy lips, 
Thou who hast done with earth. 



FRANCES BROWN, 

("THE BLIND POETESS OF ULSTER.") 

She was born in 1816, at Stranorlar, in the county of Donegal, her 
father being the postmaster of that village. She had the misfortune to 
lose her eyesight when eighteen months old, and has been dependent 
upon the kindness of others for all she lias learned from books. The ac- 
count she gives of her pains in acquiring knowledge is very pleasing, her 
intellectual taste being first awakened by the preaching of the village 
pastor, then nourished by hearing the books of children read, and 
afterwards feasted successively upon Walter Scott, ancient Histories, 
Burns, Pope's Iliad, Milton, Byron, dz-c. A letter, addressed to the 
Editor of the London Athenaeum, enclosing a few of her poems, was 
favourably answered, and she became a frequent contributor to that 
magazine, to the Dublin University, as well as to Hood's, and Lady 
Blessington's Keepsake. In 1844 a collection of her pieces, The Star 
of Alteghei and other Poems, appeared, with a preface (probably by her 
gifted publisher, Mr. Edward Moxon), which justly says: "The bard 
gathers dignity from the darkness amid which she sings, as the dark- 
ness itself is lightened by the song." 

THE SPANISH CONQUESTS IN AMERICA. 
(FROM THE VISION OF SCHWARTZ.) 

Whence came those glorious shadows? — Say, 
Ye far and nameless tombs ! 
Ye silent cities, lost to day 
Amid the forest glooms ! 



FRANCES B ROWN. 

Is there no echo in the glades, 

Whose massive foliage never fades, — 

No voice among the pathless shades, 

To tell of glory gone ? 

Gone from faint memory's fading dreams, 

From shepherd's tales and poet's themes; 

And yet the bright, eternal streams 

Unwasted still roll on, — 

Majestic as they rolled, before 

A sail had sought, or found, the shore. 

But by those mighty rivers, then, 
What peaceful nations met, 
Among the race of mortal men 
Unnamed, unnumbered yet! 
And cities rose and temples shone, 
And power and splendour graced the throne, 
And autumn's riches, freely strown, 
Repaid the peasant's pains ; 
For homes of love and shrines of prayer 
And fields of storied fame were there, 
And smiling landscapes freshly fair — ■ 
The haunts of happy swains, — 
And many a wide and trackless wild, 
Where roved the farmer's tameless child. 
***** 
Shades of Columbia's perished host ! 
How shall a stranger tell 
The deeds that glorified your coast, 
Before its warriors fell ? 
Where sleeps thy mountain muse, Peru ? 
And Chili's matchless hills of dew, 
Had they no harp, to freedom true, 
No bard of native fire, 
To sing his country's ancient fame, 
31 



361 



362 FRANCES BROWN. 

And keep the brightness of her name 
Unfading as the worshipped flame? — ■ 
The wealth of such a lyre 
Outvalues all the blood-bought ore 
That e'er Iberia's galleons bore. 

Iberia ! on thine ancient crown 

The blood of nations lies, 

With power to weigh thy glory down,— 

With voice to pierce the skies ! 

For written with an iron pen, 

Upon the memories of men, 

The deeds that marked thy conquest, then, 

For evermore remain : — 

And still the saddest of the tale 

Is Afric's wild and weary wail, — 

Though prelates spread the slaver's sail,* 

And forged the negro's chain : 

The curse of trampled liberty 

For ever clings to thine and thee ! 

# # # # # 

Bright were the spears and brave the hearts 

That held those early fields, — 

And vain, against their poisoned darts, 

Were Europe's knightly shields. 

But say, is that the lightning's flash, 

That smites the warrior's, as they dash 

Upon their foes? — The mountain ash 

Ne'er shed its shrivelled leaves 

So fast, before the winter's breath, 

As fall their crowds, by hill and heath, 

Where fast the ancient reaper, Death, 

Mows down the mortal sheaves ! 



* A bishop is said to have suggested to the emperor, Charles the Fifth, 
the necessity of introducing Negro slaves into his American colonies. 



FRANCES BROWN. 363 

For still, where nations win or yield, 
Death is the victor of the field ! 

They fall as fell the perished brave 

For whom no wreaths have sprung, 

Who sank in silence to the grave 

Unstoried and unsung. 

In vain Peru renews her darts, — 

In vain La Plata plies her arts, — ■ 

And Chili* sends her dauntless hearts, 

That would not bow, but bleed. 

Ah ! wherefore fails the righteous cause ? 

Oh ! must the sword that freedom draws, 

When arming for her holiest laws, 

Be found a broken reed ? 

Woe for the nations ! — it was so 

With Montezuma's Mexico ! 

THE MAID OF THE RHONE. 

" 'T was in that lovely land that lies 
Where Alpine shadows fall 
On scenes that, to the pilgrim's eyes, 
Might Eden's bloom recall, — 
As when, undimmed by curse or crime, 
It rose amid the dawn of time, — ■ 
That early spring, whose blossoms grew 
While yet the heavens and earth were new : 
There stood — beside the rapid Rhone, 
That, now from Leman free, 
By wood and city wall swept on, 
To meet the classic sea — 
An ancient and a stately hall, 
With dungeon-keep and moated wall, 



•The natives of Chili long resisted the Spaniards; and, it is said, 
could never be subdued. 



364 FRANCES BROWN. 

And battlements whose bannered pride 
Had many a hostile host defied. 



"And she, the lady of the tower, 
Though last of all her line, 
Was mightiest in the matchless power 
Of beauty, — at whose shrine 
The flower of chivalry adored, 
And proved their vows by song and sword. 
But knightly vow and minstrel strain 
Beneath her lattice flowed in vain ; 
For, in the maiden's bower, there hung 
A warrior's portrait — pale, 
But wondrous beautiful and young, 
And clad in burnished mail : 
Oh ! many an eye had marked it well, 
But none that warrior's tale could tell, — 
Save that he bore the Red Cross shield, 
And fought in some far Syrian field. 

" But there the maiden's earliest glance 
And latest gaze would turn, 
From thrilling harp and gleaming lance, 
With love that seemed to spurn 
All other vows, and serve alone 
That nameless idol of its own. 
For oft such glorious shadows rise, 
And early hide from youthful eyes 
The substance of this world, and claim 
The heart's first-fruits, that taste 
Of Paradise, — though nought but fame 
Hath, on the altar, traced 
The name no wave can wash away ! — 
As old remembered legends say, 



FRANCES BROWN. 365 

The eastern maiden loved, so long, 
The youth she only knew in song! 

" So loved the lady of the tower ! 
And summers glided on, 
Till, one by one, from hall and bower, 
Her kindred maids were gone; 
Some had put on the bridal wreath, — 
Some wore the chaplet twined for death : 
But still no mortal charms could wean 
Her fancy from that pictured mien. 
At length, there came a noble knight, 
Though past his manhood's prime; 
His sword had been in many a fight, 
His steps in many a clime : — 
But ah! what thoughts that wooer's name 
Awakened; — for it was the same 
That the old painter's magic art 
Had graven on the maiden's heart! 

"The idol of her youth was now 
Before her! but she gazed 
Upon the veteran's furrowed brow, — 
And then, in wonder, raised 
Her eyes to that bright pictured face, 
Whose changeless beauty wore no trace 
Of wasting time or withering war, 
Like his, in furrow or in scar. 
Oh ! many a loved and lovely face, 
Had grown less fond and fair, 
Since first that picture met her gaze, 
But, still, no change was there ! 
That age could dim or sorrow bow 
The sunny cheek or stately brow — 
31* 



366 FRANCES BROWN. 

She had not thought of things like these 
In all her lonely reveries ! 

"Like him who saw, through Alpine woods, 
The glacier's gem-like glow, 
And climbed the rocks and crossed the floods, 
To find it only snow, — 
So felt the maiden — as she said: 
'My star is set — my rainbow fled! 
Why hast thou come at last, — to break 
My pleasant dream ? — how sad to wake ! 
What thoughts of thee, o'er heart and mind, 
Have sped their visioned gleam : — 
I meet thee, now — but not to find 
The shadow of my dream ! 
This heart hath only bowed before 
The glory that the canvass wore ; 
That spell hath past — my soul is free — 
And turns no more to love — or thee ! 

" ' Go ! find some fairer, happier bride, 
Who hath not loved in vain ; — 
The light that in thy presence died, 
May never shine again ! 
The passion that survived, in truth, 
The roses and the smiles of youth, 
Hath perished, like the pilgrim knight, 
Who died, with Salem in his sight !' 

"There is a cross on Sidon's shore, 
That marks a Templar's rest; — 
And cloister-arches darken o'er 
A fairer gentler guest. 
So sleep the loving hearts, whom fate 
Forbade to meet till all too late ; 
And the same storied lands and waves 
That parted them, divide their graves." 



FRANCES BROWN. 
"LET US RETURN." 

" Let us return !" said the broken heart 
Of the mountain hermit's tale, — * 
When he saw the morning mists depart 
From the summits grey and pale : — 
For he knew that the fan-palm cast the shade 
Of its ever-glorious green 
Where the love of his blasted youth was laid, 
And the light of her steps had been. 
Ah ! thus, for ever, the heart looks back 
To its young hope's funeral urn : — 
To the tender green of that early track, 
To its light, let us return! 

The lines of our life may be smooth and strong, — 
And our pleasant path may lie 
Where the stream of affection flows along, 
In the light of a summer sky : — 
But woe for the lights that early wane, 
And the shades that early fall, 
And the prayer that speaks of the secret pain, 
Though its voice be still and small! 
To the sweeter flowers, to the brighter streams, 
To the household hearths that burn 
Still bright in our holy land of dreams, 
To their love let us return! 
» T is well we have learned the truths of time, — 
But they came with the winter's snow, 
For we saw them not through the flowery prime 
Of our summers long ago : 
Yet the spring is green and the summer bright 
As they were in the years of yore, 
But on our souls the love and light 
Of their gladness come no more ! 



367 



*Paul and Virginia. 



368 FRANCES BROWN. 

Back — back to the wisdom of the years 
That had yet no loss to mourn, — 
To their faith, that found no place for tears, 
To their joy, let us return ! 

We have paused, perchance, by the quiet grave 

Of our young who early slept, — 

And, since they left us, many a wave 

O'er our weary bark hath swept; — 

But far in the morning light enshrined, 

They gladden our backward gaze, 

Or wake like the breath of the summer's wind, 

The soul of our better days. 

Back — back ! to the living wave, we drew, 

With them, from a purer urn, — 

To the path of the promise lost to view, 

And its peace — let us return ! 



THE PICTURE OP THE DEAD. 

A chief from his distant forest came, 

To the pale one's lonely tent; 
And he brought such gifts as a prince might claim, 

By an Indian monarch sent : — 
And " Bright may the sun on thy dwelling shine !" 

Said the warrior of the wild, — 
" Stranger, the gifts I bear are thine, 

Who hast given me back my child ! 

" My child, who passed to the spirit-land, 

In the sunrise of her years : — 
I have looked for her in our woodland band, 

Till mine eyes grew dim with tears : 
But her shadow bright, by thy pencil traced, 

Still sweet in my dwelling smiled, 



FRANCES BROWN. 

And the hearth she left is not yet a waste, — 
Thou hast given me hack my child! 

" I laid her low, in the place of graves, 

Where the ever-silent slept ; 
And summer's grass, in its greenness, waves 

Where an Indian warrior wept : — 
For bright was our star, that early set, 

Till we lost its lustre mild ; 
But she lives in her changeless beauty yet, — 

Thou hast given me hack my child! 

" And say ! when our young, who loved her well, 

Like the pines grow old and hoar, 
Will her youth still last, as theirs that dwell 

Where the winter comes no more ? 
When the early loved of her heart is low, 

Will she smile as she ever smiled ? 
Oh! safe from the withering hand of woe, 

Hast thou given me back my child! 

« 'T is well with those of thine eastern land ; 

Though their loved ones may depart, 
The magic power of the painter's hand 

Restores them to the heart. 
Oh ! long may the light of their presence stay, 

Whose love thy griefs beguiled! 
And blessings brighten thy homeward way, — 

Who hast given me back my child!" 



STREAMS. 

Ye early minstrels of the earth, — 
Whose mighty voices woke 

The echoes of its infant woods, 
Ere yet the tempest spoke! 

Y 



369 



370 FRANCES BROWN. 

How is it, that ye waken still 
The young heart's happy dreams, 

And shed your light on darkened days, 
O bright and. blessed streams! 

Woe for the world ! — she hath grown old 

And grey, in toil and tears ; — 
But ye have kept the harmonies 

Of her unfallen years : 
For ever, in our weary path, 

Your ceaseless music seems 
The spirit of her perished youth, — 

Ye glad and glorious streams ! 

Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath 

Of many a sylvan scene, — 
They tell of sweet and sunny vales, 

And woodlands wildly green. 
Ye cheer the lonely heart of age, — 

Ye fill the exile's dreams 
With hope and home and memory, — 

Ye unforgotten streams ! 

Too soon the blessed springs of love 

To bitter fountains turn, 
And deserts drink the stream that flows 

From hope's exhaustless urn ; 
And faint, upon the waves of life, 

May fall the summer beams, — 
But they linger long and bright with you, 

Ye sweet unchanging streams ! 

The bards — the ancient bards — who sang 
When thought and song were new, 

O, mighty waters ! did they learn 
Their minstrelsy from you ? 



FRANCES BROWN. 371 

For still, methinks, your voices blend 

With all their glorious themes, 
That flow for ever, fresh and free 

As the eternal streams ! 

Well might the sainted seer, of old, 

Who trod the tearless shore, 
Like many waters deem the voice 

The angel hosts adore ! 
For still, where deep the rivers roll, 

Or far the torrent gleams, 
Our spirits hear the voice of God, 

Amid the rush of streams ! 



DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

The peasant dreams of lowly love, — 

The prince of courtly bowers, — 
And exiles, through the midnight, rove 

Among their native flowers : — 
But flowers depart, and, sere and chill, 

The autumn leaves are shed, 
And roses come again — yet still, 

My dreams are of the dead ! 

The voices in my slumbering ear 

Have woke the world, of old, — 
The forms that in my dreams appear 

Have mingled with the mould ; 
Yet still they rise around my rest, 

In all their peerless prime, — 
The names by new-born nations blest - 

The stars of elder time ! 

They come from old and sacred piles, 
Where glory's ashes sleep, — 



372 FRANCES BROWN. 

From far and long-deserted aisles, — 
From desert or from deep, — 

From lands of ever-verdant bowers, 
Unstained by mortal tread ; — 

Why haunt ye thus my midnight hours, 
Ye far and famous dead ? 

I have not walked with you, on earth, — 

My path is lone and low, — 
A vale where laurels have not birth, 

Nor classic waters flow : 
But on the sunrise of my soul 

Your mighty shades were cast, 
As cloud-waves o'er the morning roll, — 

Bright children of the past! 

And oft, with midnight, I have met 

The early wise and brave, — 
Oh, ever great and glorious, yet, 

As if there were no grave ! 
As if, upon their path of dust, 

Had been no trace of tears, 
No blighted faith, no broken trust, 

Nor waste of weary years ! 

But ah ! my loved of early days, — 

How brightly still they bring 
Upon my spirit's backward gaze 

The glory of its spring ! 
The hopes that shared their timeless doom 

Return, as freshly green 
As though the portals of the tomb 

Had never closed between ! 

Oh ! man may climb the mountain snows, 
Or search the ocean wave, — 

But who will choose to walk with those 
Whose dwelling is the grave? — 



FRANCES BROWN. 


373 


Yet, when upon that, titleless shore 
His sweetest flowers are shed, 

The lonely dreamer shrinks no more 
From visions of the dead ! 




THE STARS OF NIGHT. 




Whence are your glorious goings forth, — 

Ye children of the sky, 
In whose bright silence seems the power 

Of all eternity ? 
For time hath let his shadow fall 




O'er many an ancient light; 
But ye walk above, in brightness still — 
0, glorious stars of night! 



The vestal lamp in Grecian fane 

Hath faded long ago ; — 
On Persian hills the worshipped flame 

Hath lost its ancient glow ; — 
And long the heaven-sent fire is gone, 

With Salem's temple bright ; — 
But ye watch o'er wandering Israel, yet, 

O, changeless stars of night! 

Long have ye looked upon the earth, 

O'er vale and mountain-brow; 
Ye saw the ancient cities rise, 

Ye gild their ruins, now : 
Ye beam upon the cottage home — 

The conqueror's path of might; 
And shed your light alike on all, 

O, priceless stars of night ! 

And where are they, who learned from you 

The fates of coming time,— 
32 



374 FRANCES BROWN. 

Ere yet the pyramids arose 

Amid their desert clime ? 
Yet still in wilds and deserts far, 

Ye bless the watcher's sight, — 
And shine where bark hath never been, 

O, lonely stars of night ! 

Much have ye seen of human tears — 

Of human hope and love, — 
And fearful deeds of darkness, too, — 

Ye witnesses above ! 
Say, will that blackening record live 

For ever in your sight, 
Watching for judgment on the earth, — 

O, sleepless stars of night ! 

How glorious was your song, that rose 

With the first morning's dawn ! 
And still, amid our -summer sky, 

Its echo lingers on : — 
Though ye have shone on many a grave, 

Since Eden's early blight, 
Ye tell of hope and glory, still — 

O, deathless stars of night ! 



STEPHENS, THE TRAVELLER, AMONG THE RUINS OF COPAN. 

'Twas in the western wilderness 

Of everlasting trees, — 
Where rose no voice and waved no tress 

Upon the lonely breeze, — 
Where never light of sun or star 

Might shine through bower or glade ; — 
Why came the stranger, then, so far, 

To pierce its depth of shade ? 



FRANCES BROWN. 

Did not his childhood's eye the land 

Of ancient woods behold, 
In summer's greenness darkly grand, 

Or autumn's gorgeous gold ? 
Had he not heard the tempest sweep 

Through forests vast and hoar, 
Like some yet undiscovered deep 

Lone sounding on its shore ? 

Yes! — but from southern wilds there came 

A voice of olden time, — 
An echo of departed fame 

Dwelt in that golden clime: 
And there, the dauntless traveller found 

His toil repaid at last, — 
Where wreaths of countless summers crowned 

A city of the past! 

The birds had sung its solitude, 

While silent ages swept, — 
And palm-trees, where its altars stood, 

Their voiceless vigil kept : — 
And flowers grew fair, amid the homes 

Of a departed race, — 
Whose skill had raised the ruined domes 

Of that green desert place. 

Was this, when Greece and time were young, 

The land of Plato's dreams, — 
Whose glory round his visions hung, 

By far and classic streams ? 
Or had its fading splendour shone 

Like sunset o'er the seas, 
And lit, through trackless waves, alone, 

The fearless Genoese ? 



375 



376 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 

How have they perished from the earth ! — 

By lyre and pen forgot, 
Alike their destiny and birth, 

They were — and they are not ! 
Time swept into oblivion's womb 

Their glory and their power, — 
And ancient forests spread their gloom 

O'er temple, tomb and tower. 

For nature's hand is mighty, still ; 

The thrones of earth decay, — 
The sword of war, the pen of skill 

And wisdom, pass away, — 
But wide she spreads her leafy pall, 

Or bids the harvest wave, — 
And the glory, and the conquest, all 

Are thine, devouring grave ! 



LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY, 

Daughter of the Duke of Rutland, and wife of the Hon. Stuart 
Wortley, lays claim to a share of the genius which has distinguished 
her blood and her name. Her poems fill a dozen volumes, having suc- 
ceeded each other very rapidly : The Knight and the Enchantress, 
1832 : London at Night and other Poems, 1834 ; The Village Church 
Yard, 1835 ; The Visionary, 1837 ; Lays of Leisure, 1838, &c, with 
versified notices of her travels ; and she has written a novel or two 
besides. The reviewers have shown her productions little mercy, and 
it must be owned, that not a few of them are absurd enough to justify 
the severity. She is utterly averse to any discipline of her fancy or 
style, pouring out tropes and metaphors, old, new, just and confused, 
without choice or stint, as the readiest means of filling out her lavish 
lines, which she seems bent upon multiplying without end. Yet some 



LADY EMMELINE STUART WOltTLEY. 377 

of her smaller poems evince a glowing imagination, a lively sense of 
the beautiful, and an ear for rhythm, which render them worthy of a 
higher estimate than they have generally received. 



NIGHT AND MORNING. 

1 wandered through the wood, 
And I wandered by the wave ; 

I bent me o'er the flood, 
Where angry waters rave. 

The night was gathering dark, 
And the air was gathering damp ; 

There gleamed no glow-worm's spark, 
No fire-fly's fluttering lamp. 

Fondly I sought to dream, 

But mine eyelids would not close — 

Grated the night-owl's scream, 
Roared the pine's crashing brows. 

No nightingale was singing, 

Those solemn glooms to cheer ; 

But the hollow winds were ringing 
Their death-dirge in mine ear. 

No lovely star was shining 

Through those midnight heavens of dread •, 
No bowery foliage twining 

Rich umbrage o'er my head. 

No sweet night-blowing flowers 
With their mist of incense-steam, 

No golden-fruited bowers 

Stained by the noontide beam. 
32* 



378 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY 

No verdure fresh and fair — 

Carpet for fairies' feet ; 
Spring's glories reigned not there, 

Nor summer's breathings sweet. 

Solemn the night, and dreary, — 

A weight on eye and ear ; 
The very heart felt weary, 

And o'ertaken by dim fear. 

Haunted by things long lost, 

Pale, shadowy memories, 
The undistinguishable host 

Of aery phantasies. 

I strove to see the land — 

I strove to see the sky; 
But Darkness waved his wand, 

Night was — Immensity ! 

But Slumber then descended, 
Soft visions soothed my sight, 

And when that brief sleep ended, 
The universe was — Light ! 

O ! my bounding heart was borne 
On the wings of strong delight, 

When thy approach, sweet morn ! 
Stilled the resounding night. 

Thus shines the splendid morrow, 
When the heavy night is past, 

And thus from holy sorrow 

Spring heaven's own smiles at last! 

Lovelier even light may be 

From darkness burning forth — 

O, Suffering ! 't is from thee 

We learn Hope's costliest worth ! 



LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 379 
DREAMS. 

Dreams, loveliest mutabilities of ever-changeful earth! 
Beauteous and precious blossoming of Time's cold desert 

dearth, 
Incarnadining life's grey mists with sun-hues of the south, 
And brightening life's horizon-rim with the orient fires of 

youth. 

Like the fair rainbow, linking earth to the blue exulting sky, 

And showering o'er the space around a flood of radiancy ! 

O, wondrous are ye, and sublime in your phases and your 

powers, 
Wresting from care and feverish woe some few short splendid 

hours ! 

From the monarch's brow ye lift the crown ! the captive's 

chains unbind ! 
Youth unto frozen age ye are, and light unto the blind — 
A refuge and a shelter to earth's wanderer, weary-hearted, 
And all to the bereaved, since ye restore the long-departed ! 

To childhood's ken, O ! what a world of mystery and of 

glory ! 
Surpassing all even childhood meets in the gorgeous realms of 

story ! 
All dazzling dyes, all wildering light, all wonder, and all 

change ! 
Where the thoughts, like birds of paradise, through an endless 

sunshine range ! 

# # * # # 

A picture-land, a music-land, sleep's wide realm must be there, 
Where no echo-voice of other times doth haunt the silvery 

air — 
No faded tracery of the past doth mantle it with gloom — ■ 
No canopying clouds of night, no shadows of the tomb ! 



3S0 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 

Dreams of the poet's burning mind ! ! what must ye not be ? 

Bright-pinioned travellers, that explore the unveiled immen- 
sity ; 

That bring from many an untraeked coast, and many an un- 
touched mine, 

The dazzling meed of riches he receives but to resign ! 

Yet, if his mind one lightning-glimpse of all ye brought retain, 
It shall bring glory without end to his mighty sweeping strain ! 
For ye shall crown his conquering thought with all grand and 

starry themes, 
Though alone that lightning-glimpse bequeathed, shall mark 

your track, winged dreams ! 

Yours are the realms of life and death — the realms of time 

and space ! 
And the fiery-tressed comet toils behind ye in the race ; 
The Past heaves, like a billowy sea, when ye hover o'er its 

gloom — 
And, fearful in their beauty, rise the dwellers of the tomb ! 

And to the painter's fervid glance what marvels ye disclose — 
Your very atmosphere burns deep with the crimsonings of the 

rose ! 
Sunshine through moonlight quivering gleams ! beam upon 

beam embossed ! 
In labyrinthine wreathed wanderings — silvery streams with 

golden crossed! 

Perchance ye spread unrecked-of worlds before his raptured 
vision — 

Worlds with o'erpowering beauty crowned! aerial — crystal- 
line — Elysian ! 

Where the spirit of all loveliness embodied seems to dwell, 

As the fire within the umbrageous cloud, or the pearl in the 
orient shell ! 



LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 381 

Or, perchance, the glorious scenes of old for him ye may 

revive ! 
And bid the vanished Beautiful — the vanquished Mighty live — 
Redeem fallen cities from the dust, that hath their majesty 

defiled, 
And give them pomp they boasted not, ere time their strength 

despoiled. 

Like gorgeous jewel-pyramids — like genii-structures, famed 

of old, 
They arise with spires and column-shafts of burnished sculp- 
tured gold ! 
With vast domes that might o'ercanopy all the unpavilioned 

seas ! 
Yet ever varying, cloud-like, to his fancy's varying breeze ! 

* # # # # 

O'er that spirit that hath thirsted for the fountain-draughts of 

life ! 
And battled with meek earnestness through the dark and 

lengthened strife ; 
O'er whose thousand thousand thoughts and hopes, one faith 

hath, crown-like, hovered — 
Ye have breathed ! and to its passionate gaze worlds after 

worlds discovered. 

O'er that spirit — sovereign dreams ! ye shed a mastering gift 
of power, 

To pierce the cloud-o'ershadowings of earth's strange mys- 
terious hour — 

To rend through dimly-visioned worlds a bright victorious 
way — 

To soar in the height of heights, the excess of heaven's deep 
day! 



382 LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 



EVENING. 

'T was evening, and a lovely and a lulling evening 't was — 
Soft, slumbrous murmurs lightly ran through the wavy sha- 
dowy grass — 
Bright birds were homewards flitting, scattering song-notes 

faint and few, 
And heavy grew the soft warm air, all redolent of dew — 
Sweet dew ! that mantled and arrayed all things in quivering 

splendour ! 
Sweet dew ! that made the violet leaves their richest scents 

surrender ! 
The lengthening shadows slanted from the mountain's flowery 

side — 
The half-veiled landscape with a depth of dreamy hues was 

dyed ! 
Ah ! 't was such season and such scene as silently compels 
Long-unremembered feelings from their sealed and shrouded 

cells — 
Inducing a luxuriant calm — a solemn mood and high, 
While melancholy's thousand chords are attuned to harmony ! 
A mood from which no wanderer-thought, in feathery bondage 

held, 
Would wish to escape, though prisoned there, and softened 

down, and quelled ! 
O, 'tis a tender bondage this, as light — as soft as sleep! 
Sleep — that, like summer's purple heaven, doth all in beauty 

steep — 
Sleep ! O, that most familiar — that most 'wildering miracle, 
When all the music of the soul lies locked within its shell ! 
Yet e'en more wondrously divine, and more rich and glorious 

seems 



LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY. 383 

A waking world of phantasies and ever changeful dreams — 
A waking world of visions, spread before the uncurtained 

eyes ! 
As in such sweet aerial mood unsought — undreamed of — 

rise ! 
That mood which, like the dove, doth all unwearied evermore 
Brood on itself! — or like the wave o'er its unseen pearly 

store : 
Words never may its mysteries high — its sweet discrepancies 

unfold — 
O, in this world are feelings old, unlanguaged and untold ! 
Though they by thousands have been felt, by tens of thou- 
sands known — 
Silence still overpowers them from her wide and viewless 

throne .' 
Thus this blest mood — of sadness rich, and of influence pure 

and fine — 
(How all wild and dark emotions in its hallowed sphere 

decline !) 
Language may never breathe away the mists that wrapt it 

round ! 
'Twould shrink from the aery thrall of words — the silvery 

touch of sound ! 
Calmer the spirit seems to lie than some many- imaged lake, 
When no breeze may crisp its crystal-depths, its azure mirror 

break ! 
O, 't is a reconciling dream —a mediatorial spell ! 
The trouble of our worldly griefs and our worldly joys to 

quell ! 



RS. NORTON. 



This most delightful writer, whose lines alternate with feminine ten- 
derness and masculine vigour, inherited genius and has been educated 
by suffering. Sarah Elizabeth Norton is the grand-daughter of Ri- 
chard Brinsley Sheridan. Left fatherless when an infant, she and her 
sisters were educated by an accomplished and devoted mother. How 
much she was indebted to that mother's care, her subsequent career 
has shown. Her sister (subsequently married to the Hon. Capt. Price 
Blackwood, who died soon after his succession to the title of Lord 
Dufferin and Clanboy), generously rivalled her in precocity of talent and 
ease of composition, each having filled, before the age of twelve, a 
manuscript volume with poems of unusual merit. The affecting ballad 
of The Irish Emigrant' s Lament, rendered yet more affecting to us by 
Mr. Dempster's music and singing, was a fruit of Lady DufTerin's 
maturer powers, and compares with any lyric of humble life in the 
language for Saxon simplicity and natural truth. The more it is stu- 
died, the more does the talent of its conception and detail appear ; nor 
can it be sufficiently regretted that so exquisite a pen has been so idle. 
The early vigour of our authoress was not the hotbed prematurity that 
quickly disappoints the hopes it excites. She has continued to write 
better and better to the present hour ; though, as Mr. Griswold with his 
usual judgment says, she need not now be ashamed of verses which she 
wrote at twelve. At seventeen, her Sorrows of Rosalie showed he- 
ripening genius. Bereaved by death of one to whom her heart was given, 
she became in an unpropitious hour the wife of the Hon. George 
Chappel Norton, who has proved himself utterly unworthy of having 
committed to him the child of beauty, genius and generous feeling, 
whom he lias persecuted witli the basest accusations and untiring ma- 
lignity. Mrs. Norton passed through a judicial investigation of her 
character in such a triumphant manner as to awaken, on both sides of 
the Atlantic, the utmost indignation against her slanderers. The traces 
of her sufferings are burned deeply on her pages. She scorns to 
hide the workings of her embittered memory and outraged heart; yet 
her tone though unconstrained is lofty, yielding not to man, but to the 

(384) 



MRS. NORTON. 385 

force of nature. What she has endured has taught her not misanthropy, 
but a stronger sympathy with the weak and wronged, a nobler eloquence 
in appeals for freedom, truth and general justice. She has retired from 
the world but not abandoned it, and the editor has before him a letter 
from a distinguished American lady now in England, speaking in affec- 
tionate and admiring terms of the choice, though purposely circum- 
scribed society, in which her earnest nature finds a solace, heightened 
by a continued exercise of her powers to charm the many who wel- 
come every new effusion from her pen. 

Mrs. Norton is deficient in severity of taste. Like most female 
writers, though in a far less degree than some, she writes too eagerly, 
and not a few even of her best pieces are marred by lines or words 
hastily thrown in to serve the measure. Strains of such passionate 
force should be carefully submitted to the judgment of her cooler hours, 
and rhetorical rule suffered to trim the luxuriance which it would not 
have created. That poetry, even of the heart, is most perfect, which is 
best governed ; and carelessness of rule inevitably requires occasional 
artifice to help us out of difficulties into which haste has led us. Mrs. 
Norton, with her characteristic ingenuousness, confesses her obnox- 
iousness to criticism; and in the preface to her last and noble poem on 
the Young Prince of Wales, The Child of the Islands, says, that she 
has "endeavoured to profit by the suggestions made on former occa- 
sions I can truly copy the plan of quaint John Bunyan : 

< It came from mine own heart — so to my head, 
And thence into my fingers trickled ; 
Then to my pen — .' " 

Notwithstanding, we should be sorry to see her fire smothered by too 
much care, an evil of which, if we may judge from the Child of the 
Islands, there is no great danger. 



TWILIGHT. 

(FROM THE D R E A v ) 

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth 
To dim enchantments ; melting Heaven with Earth, 
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams 
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams ; 
33 z 



386 MRS. NORTON. 

Thy hour to all is welcome ! Faint and sweet 
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, 
Who, slow returning from his task of toil, 
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, 
And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, 
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws. 
Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, 
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, 
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, 
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife, 
To whom his coming is the chief event 
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. 
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past 
And those poor cottagers have only cast 
One careless glance on all that show of pride 
Then to their tasks turned quietly aside ; 
But him they wait for, him they welcome home. 
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come ; 
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, 
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him ; 
For him the watching of that sturdy boy, 
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, 
For him, — ■ who plods his sauntering way along 
Whistling: the fragment of some village songf ! 



Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light, 
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night ! 
As in impatient hope he stands apart, 
Companioned only by his beating heart, 
And with an eager fancy oft beholds 
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds 
Flit through the grove and gain the open mead, 
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed ! 
At length she comes. The evening's holy grace 
Mellows the glory of her radiant face ; 



MRS. NORTON. 

The curtain of that daylight faint and pale 
Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil 5 
As, turning with a bashful timid thought, 
From the dear welcome she herself hath sought, 
Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky 
Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye. 

Oh ! dear to him, to all, since first the flowers 

Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers 

Heard the low breeze along the branches play, 

And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day. 

For though that glorious Paradise be lost, 

Though earth by blighting storms be roughly crossed, 

Though the long curse demands the tax of sin, 

And the day's sorrows with the day begin, 

That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still 

Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, 

The holiest hour of Earth. Then toil doth cease — 

Then from the yoke the oxen find release — 

Then man rests pausing from his many cares, 

And the world teems with children's sunset prayers ! 

Then innocent things seek out their natural rest, 

The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's breast ; 

The birds beneath their leafy covering creep, 

Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep ; 

And angels, floating by, on radiant wings, 

Hear the low sound the breeze of evening brings, 

Catch the sweet incense as it floats along, 

The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song, 

And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar, 

As things too sacred for this fallen star. 

At such an hour, on such a summer night, 
Silent and calm in its transparent light, 
A widowed parent watched her slumbering child 
On whose young face the sixteenth summer smiled. 



387 



388 MRS. NORTON. 

Fair was the face she watched ! Nor less, because 

Beauty's perfection seemed to make a pause, 

And wait, on that smooth brow, some further touch, 

Some spell from time, — the great magician, — such 

As calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom, 

And bids it wake to glory, light, and bloom. 

Girlish as yet, but with the gentle grace 

Of a young fawn in its low resting-place, 

Her folded limbs were lying : from her hand 

A group of wild flowers — Nature's brightest band, 

Of all that laugh along the summer fields, 

Of all the sunny hedge-row freely yields, 

Of all that in the wild-wood darkly hide, 

Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride, — 

Showed that the weariness which closed in sleep 

So tranquil, child-like, innocent and deep, 

Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours, 

Had brought; but, like a flower among the flowers, 

She had been wandering 'neath a summer sky. 

Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye, 

Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn, 

And the blue scabious from the sunny corn ; 

Smiling and singing like a spirit fair 

That walked the world, but had no dwelling there. 

And still (as though their faintly scented breath 

Preserved a meek fidelity in death) 

Each late imprisoned blossom fondly lingers 

Within the touch of her unconscious fingers, 

Though, languidly unclasped, that hand no more 

Guards its possession of its rifled store. 

So wearily she lay; so sweetly slept; 
So by her side fond watch the mother kept ; 
And, as above her gentle child she bent, 
So like they seemed in form and lineament, 



MRS. NO RT ON 



389 



You might have deemed her face its shadow gave 
To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave ; 
Only in this they differed ; that, while one 
Was warm and radiant as the summer sun, 
The other's smile had more a moonlight play, 
For many tears had wept its glow away ; 
Yet was she fair; of loveliness so true, 
That time, which faded, never could subdue ; 
And though the sleeper, like a half-blown rose, 
Showed bright as angels in her soft repose, 
Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid, 
Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashes hid — 
Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep, 
But woke up smiling, like a child's, from sleep ; — 
Though fainter lines were pencilled on the brow, 
Which cast soft shadows on the orbs below ; 
Though deeper colour flushed her youthful cheek, 
In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek, 
And fuller seemed the small and crimson mouth, 
With teeth like those that glitter in the south — 
She had but youth's superior brightness, such 
As the skilled painter gives with flattering touch 
When he would picture every lingering grace 
Which once shone brighter in some copied face ; 
And it was compliment, whene'er she smiled, 
To say, " Thou 'rt like thy mother, my fair child !" 



A MOTHER. 



Ah ! blessed are they for whom 'mid all their pains 
That faithful and unaltered love remains ; 
Who, Life wrecked round them, — hunted from their rest,- 
And, by all else forsaken or distressed, — 
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine — 
As I, my Mother, claimed my place in thine ! 
33* 



390 MRS. NORTON. 

Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace 
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face ; 
Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded 
In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe ; 
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded 
By that deep wretchedness the lonely know : 
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task 
Conned by unwilling lips, with listless air, 
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask 
More than the widow's pittance then could spare. 
Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, 
Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts, 
But the long self-denial, day by day, 
Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts ! 
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, 
The young rebellious spirits crowding round, 
Who saw not, knew not, felt not for thy pain, 
And could not comfort — yet had power to wound J 
Ah ! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown 
Familiar with deep trials of its own, 
With riper judgment looking to the past, 
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, 
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, 
And darkens every folly into crime ' 

OBSCURITY OF WOMAN'S WORTH. 

In many a village churchyard's simple grave, 
Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave, 
In many a vault where Death could only claim 
The brief inscription of a woman's name ; 
Of different ranks, and different degrees, 
From daily labour to a life of ease, 
(From the rich wife who through the weary day 
Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey, 



MRS. NORTON. 391 

To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and moor, 
And with her baby begged from door to door, — ) 
Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release, 
Had lost all memory of the blessing " Peace ;" 
Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years 
None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears ; 
The obscurely noble ! who evaded not 
The woe which He had willed should be their lot, 
But nerved themselves to bear! 

Of such art thou, 
My Mother ! With thy calm and holy brow, 
And high devoted heart, which suffered still 
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill. 
And, because Fate hath willed that mine should be 
A Poet's soul (at least in my degree,) — 
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth 
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth, — 
Therefore I speak of Thee; that those who read 
That trust in woman, which is still my creed, 
Thy early-widowed image may recall 
And greet thy nature as the type of all ! 



THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. 

As by his lonely hearth he sate, 
The shadow of a welcome dream 

Passed o'er his heart, — disconsolate 
His home did seem; 

Comfort in vain was spread around, 

For something still was wanting found 

Therefore he thought of one who might 
For ever in his presence stay ; 

Whose dream should be of him by night, 
Whose smile should be for him by day; 



392 MRS. NORTON. 

And the sweet vision, vague and far, 
Rose on his fancy like a star. 

" Let her be young, yet not a child, 
Whose light and inexperienced mirth 
Is all too winged and too wild 

For sober earth, — 
Too rainbow-like such mirth appears, 
And fades away in misty tears. 

" Let youth's fresh rose still gently bloom 
Upon her smooth and downy cheek, 
Yet let a shadow, not of gloom, 

But soft and meek, 
Tell that some sorrow she hath known, 
Though not a sorrow of her own. 

" And let her eyes be of the grey, 

The soft grey of the brooding dove, 
Full of the sweet and tender ray 

Of modest love ; 
For fonder shows that dreamy hue 
Than lustrous black or heavenly blue. 

" Let her be full of quiet grace, 

No sparkling wit with sudden glow 
Bright'ning her purely chiselled face 

And placid brow ; 
Not radiant to the slranger''s eye, — ■ 
A creature easily passed by ; 

"But who, once seen, with untold power 
For ever haunts the yearning heart, 
Raised from the crowd that self-same hour 

To dwell apart, 
All sainted and enshrined to be, 
The idol of our memory ! 



393 



MRS. NORTON. 

"And oh! let Mary be her name — 
It hath a sweet and gentle sound, 
At which no glories dear to fame 

Come crowding round, 
But which the dreaming heart beguiles 
With holy thoughts and household smiles. 

"With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind, 
And love, the same in joy and tears, 
And gushing intercourse of mind 

Through faithful years; 
Oh ! dream of something half divine, 
Be real — be mortal — and be mine!" 



THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. 

Spirit ! who over this our mortal earth, 

Where naught hath birth 

Which imperfection doth not some way dim 

Since earth offended Him — 

Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings 

Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things ; 

And, wandering to and fro, 

Through the condemned and sinful world dost go ; 

Haunting that wilderness, the human heart, 

With gleams of glory that too soon depart, 

Gilding both weed and flower; — 

What is thy birth divine ? and whence thy mighty power ? 

The sculptor owns thee ! On his high pale brow 

Bewildering images are pressing now; 

Groups whose immortal grace 

His chisel ne'er shall trace, 

Though in his mind the fresh creation glows ; 



394 MRS. NORTON. 

High forms of godlike strength, 

Or limbs whose languid length 

The marble fixes in a sweet repose ! 

At thy command, 

His true and patient band 

Moulds the dull clay to beauty's richest line, 

Or with more tedious skill, 

Obedient to thy will, 

By touches imperceptible and fine, 

Works slowly day by day 

The rough-hewn block away, 

Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile 

Wakes into statue-life, and pays the assiduous toil f 

Thee the young painter knows, — whose fervent eyes, 

O'er the blank waste of canvass fondly bending, 

See fast within its magic circle rise 

Some pictured scene, with colours softly blending, — 

Green bowers and leafy glades, 

The old Arcadian shades, 

Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, 

And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one 

Appear to bless his sight 

In fancy's glowing light, 

Peopling that spot of green earth's flowery breast 

With every attitude of joy and rest. 

Lo ! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth 

(Like an uprising star in the cold north) 

Some face which soon shall glow with beauty's fire : 

Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around. 

Dim and uncertain as an echoed sound, 

But oh ! how bright to him, whose hand thou dost inspire 

Thee also, doth the dreaming poet hail, 
Fond comforter of many a weary day — 



MRS. NORTON. 395 

When through the clouds his fancy's ear can sail 

To worlds of radiance far, how far, away ! 

At thy clear touch, (as at the burst of light 

Which morning shoots along the purple hills, 

Chasing the shadows of the vanished night, 

And silvering all the darkly gushing rills, 

Giving each waking blossom, gemmed with dew, 

Its bright and proper hue,) — 

He suddenly beholds the checkered face 

Of this old world in its young Eden grace ! 

Disease, and want, and sin, and pain, are not — 

Nor homely and familiar things : — man's lot 

Is like aspirations — bright and high; 

And even in the haunting thought that man must die, 

His dream so changes from its fearful strife, 

Death seems but fainting into purer life ! 

Nor only these thy presence woo, 

The less inspired own thee too ! 

Thou hast thy tranquil source 

In the deep well-springs of the human heart, 

And gushest with sweet force 

When most imprisoned ; causing tears to start 

In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye, 

As, with a sigh, 

At the bright close of some rare holiday, 

He sees the branches wave, the waters play — 

And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime 

Warn him a busier world reclaims his time ! 

Thee, childhood's heart confesses, — when he sees 
The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze, 
When the red coral wins his eager gaze, 
Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays, 
Thee through his varied hours of rapid joy, 
The eager boy, — 



396 MRS. NORTON. 

Who wild across the grassy meadow springs, 

And still with sparkling eyes 

Pursues the uncertain prize, 

Lured by the velvet glory of its wings ! 

And so from youth to age — yea, till the end — 

An unforsaken, unforgetting friend, 

Thou hoverest round us ! And when all is o'er, 

And earth's most loved illusions please no more, 

Thou stealest gently to the couch of death ; 

There, while the lagging breath 

Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh, 

Consoling visions from thy native sky, 

Making it sweet to die ! 

The sick man's ears are faint — his eyes are dim — 

But his heart listens to the heavenward hymn, 

And his soul sees — in lieu of that sad band, 

Who come with mournful tread 

To kneel about his bed, — 

God's white-robed angels, who around him stand, 

And wave his spirit to " the Better Land !" 

So, living, — dying, — still our hearts pursue 

That loveliness which never met our view : 

Still to the last the ruling thought will reign, 

Nor deem one feeling given — was given in vain ! 

For it may be, our banished souls recall 

In this, their earthly thrall, 

(With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world 

Whence angels once were hurled ; 

Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense 

Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence. 

Foreshows the immortal radiance round us shed, 

When the imperfect shall be perfected ! 

Like the chained eagle in his fettered might, 

Straining upon the heavens his wistful sight, 



MRS. NORTON. 397 

Who toward the upward glory fondly springs, 
With all the vain strength of his shivering wings, — 
So chained to earth, and baffled — yet so fond 
Of the pure sky which lies so far beyond, 
We make the attempt to soar in many a thought 
Of beauty born, and into beauty wrought ; 
Dimly we struggle onwards : — who shall say 
Which glimmering light leads nearest to the day ? 

THE AUTUMN WIND. 

Hush, moaning autumn wind ! be still, be still ! 

Thy grieving voice forbiddeth hearts to rest ; 
We hear thee sweeping down the lonely hill, 

And mournful thoughts crowd o'er the human breast. 
Why wilt thou haunt us, with thy voice unkind, 
Sadd'ning the earth ? Hush, moaning autumn wind ! 

Toss not the branching trees so wildly high, 

Filling the forest with thy dreary sound ; 
Without thy aid the hues of summer die, 

And the sere leaves fall scattered to the ground. 
Thou dost but hasten, needlessly unkind, 
The winter's task, thou moaning autumn wind ! 

Sweep not through Ocean's caves with hollow roar, 
Driving our fair ships to some rock-bound strand . 

While the vexed sea foams wrathful to the shore, 
The seaman's wife looks shuddering from the land, 

And widowed hearts for many a year shall find 

Death in thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! 

Round our calm dwellings, when our hearts are gay, 

Roam not, oh howling spirit of Despair ! 
As though thou wert a creature seeking prey, 

And where the land looked richest, found it there. 

We have enough of memories unkind 

Without thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind ! 
34 



398 MRS. NORTON. 

Thee the sad mourner lists, and turns to weep, 
In the blank silence of her lonely home ; 

The sick man hears, and starts from broken sleep, 
And the night-wanderer sighs — compelled to roam ; 

While the poor shiver, for their huts unkind 

Bar thee not out, thou searching autumn wind ! 

Back to the barren hill and lonely glen ! 

Here let the wandering of thy echoes cease ; 
Sadly thou soundest to the hearts of men, — 

Hush thy wild voice, and let the earth have peace , 
Or, if no chain thy restless will can bind, 
Sweep through the desert, moaning autumn wind ! 



WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. 

"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for 
him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native 
country." — Jeremiah xxii. 10. 

Weep not for him that dieth — 

For he sleeps, and is at rest; 
And the couch whereon he lieth 

Is the green earth's quiet breast ; 
But weep for him who pineth 

On a far land's hateful shore, 
Who wearily declineth 

Where ye see his face no more ! 

Weep not for him that dieth, 

For friends are round his bed, 
And many a young lip sigheth 

When they name the early dead : 
But weep for him that liveth 

Where none will know or care, 
When the groan his faint heart giveth 

Is the last sigh of despair. 



MRS. NORTON. 399 

Weep not for him that dieth, 

For his struggling' soul is free. 
And the world from which it flieth 

Is a world of misery ; 
But weep for him that weareth 

The captive's galling chain : 
To the agony he beareth, 

Death were but little pain. 

Weep not for him that dieth, 

For he hath ceased from tears, 
And a voice to his replieth 

Which he hath not heard for years •, 
But weep for him who weepeth 

On that cold land's cruel shore — 
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth, — 

Weep for the dead no more ! 



THE CHILD OF EARTH. 

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day, 
Death's heavy hand is on her darkening brow ; 

Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

" I am content to die, but, oh ! not now ! 

Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 

Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. 

Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow ! 

I am content to die — but oh ! not now !" 

The spring hath ripened into summer-time, 
The season's viewless boundary is past; 

The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime ; 
Oh ! must this glimpse of beauty be the last ? 



400 MRS. NORTON. 

" Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, 
With silent steps the lord of light moves on ; 

Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee 
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone ! 

Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow ; 

I am content to die — but, oh! not now!" 

Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues 

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn ! 
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues, 

Shouts the halloo, and winds the eager horn. 
" Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze 

On the broad meadows and the quiet stream, 
To watch in silence while the evening rays 

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam! 
Cooler the breezes play around my brow ; 
I am content to die — but, oh! not now!" 

The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near, 

Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear, 

Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound. 
Yet still that prayer ascends : — Oh ! laughingly 

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd, 
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high, 

And the roof rings with voices glad and loud ; 
Spare me awhile ! raise up my drooping brow ! 
I am content to die — but, oh ! not now !" 

The spring is come again — the joyful spring ! 

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread; 
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing — 

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! 
"Thee nevermore the sunshine shall awake, 

Beaming all redly through the lattice pane ; 



MRS. NORTON. 401 

The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break, 

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again ! 
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow ; 
Why didst thou linger ? — thou art happier now !" 



SONNET. 

Like an enfranchised bird, who wildly springs, 

With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye 
And a strong effort in his quivering wings, 

Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, — 
So my enamoured heart, so long thine own, 

At length from Love's imprisonment set free, 
Goes forth into the open world alone, 

Glad and exulting in its liberty : 
But like that helpless bird, (confined so long, 

His weary wings have lost all power to soar,) 
Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song, 

And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more, — 
So, from its former bonds released in vain, 
My heart still feels the weight of that remembered chain. 



SONNET. TO MY BOOKS. 

Silent companions of the lonely hour, 

Friends, who can never alter or forsake, 
Who for inconstant roving have no power, 

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take, — 
Let me return to you ; this turmoil ending 

Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, 
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, 

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, 
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time, 

Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
34* 2 a 



402 MRS. NORTON. 

'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime 

My native language spoke in friendly tone, 
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
On these, my unripe musings, told so well. 



SONNET. THE WEAVER. 

Little they think, the giddy and the vain, 

Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, 
While the light glossy silk or rustling train 

Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, 
How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, 

Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, 
Pent in the confines of one narrow room, 

Where droops complainingly his cheerless head : — 
Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, 

Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, 
The devious mingling of those various dyes 

Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands : — 
But the day cometh when the tired shall rest, — 
Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast ! 



B I N G EN. 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's 

tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. 
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, 
And he said, " I never more shall see my own, my native land ; 
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, 
For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. 



MRS. NORTON. 403 

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd 

around, 
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. 
And 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in Avars, 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars: 
But some were young — and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, 
And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! 

" Tell my mother, that her other sons shall comfort her old age, 

And I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : 

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; 

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 

I let them take whate'er he would, but kept my father's sword, 

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to 

shine. 
On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine ! 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, 
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant 

tread ; 
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, 
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; 
And to hang the old sword in its place, (my father's sword and 

mine,) 
For the honour of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine ! 

" There's another — not a sister ; in the happy days gone by, 
You 'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her 

eye; 
Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorning, — 
Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest 

mourning, 



404 MRS. NORTON. 

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen 
My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison,) 
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — ■ fair Bingen on the Rhine ! 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard or seemed to 

hear, 
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; 
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still, 
And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, 
And her little hand lay lightly, — confidingly in mine, 
But we '11 meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on the 

Rhine !" 

THE NEW-BORN CHILD. 

Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth, 

What joy is welcomed like a new-born child? 
What life so wretched, but that, at its birth, 

Some heart rejoiced — some lip in gladness smiled? 

The poorest cottager, by love beguiled, 
Greets his new burden with a kindly eye ; 

He knows his son must toil as he hath toiled ; 
But cheerful Labour, standing patient by, 
Laughs at the warning shade of meagre Poverty ! 

The pettiest squire who holds his bounded sway 
In some far nook of England's fertile ground, 

Keeps a high jubilee the happy day 

Which bids the bonfires blaze, the joybells sound, 
And the small tenantry come flocking round, 

While the old steward triumphs to declare 

The mother's suffering hour with safety crowned ; 

And then, with reverent eyes, and grey locks bare, 
Falters — "God bless the Boy!" his Master's Son and Heir! 



MRS. NORTON. 405 

The youthful couple, whose sad marriage-vow 
Received no sanction from a haughty sire, 

Feel, as they gaze upon their infant's brow, 

Hope — the old friend whose strong wings never tire — 
Once more their long discouraged hearts inspire ; 

For sure, they deem, the smiles of that young face, 
Shall thaw the frost, of his relentless ire : 

The pathway of their home their thoughts retrace, 
And, weeping, yearn to meet his reconciled embrace ! 

Yea, for this cause, even Shame will step aside, 
And cease to bow the head and wring the heart ; 

For she that is a mother, but no bride, 
Out of her lethargy of woe will start, 
Pluck from her side that sorrow's barbed dart, 

And, now no longer faint and full of fears, 
Plan how she best protection may impart 

To the lone course of those forsaken years, 
Which dawn in Love's warm light though doomed to set in tears ! 

The dread exception — when some frenzied mind, 
Crushed by the weight of unforeseen distress, 

Grows to that feeble creature all unkind, 

And Nature's sweetest fount, through grief's excess, 
Is strangely turned to gall and bitterness ; 

When the deserted babe is left to lie, 
Far from the woeful mother's lost caress, 

Under the broad cope of the solemn sky, 
Or, by her shuddering hands, forlorn, condemned to die : 

Yes, deem her mad ! for holy is the sway 

Of that mysterious sense which bids us bend 

Toward the young souls new clothed in helpless clay, 
Fragile beginnings of a mighty end, — ■ 



406 



MRS. NORTON. 



Angels un winged, — which human care must tend 
Till they can tread the world's rough path alone, 

Serve for themselves, or in themselves offend. 
But God o'erlooketh all from His high throne, 
And sees, with eyes benign, their weakness — and our own! 

Therefore we pray for them, when sunset brings 
Rest to the joyous heart and shining head; 

When flowers are closed, and birds fold up their wings, 
And watchful mothers pass each cradle-bed 
With hushed soft steps, and earnest eyes that shed 

Tears far more glad than smiling ! Yea, all day 
We bless them; while, by guileless pleasure led, 

Their voices echo in their gleesome play, 
And their whole careless souls are making holiday. 

And if, by Heaven's inscrutable decree, 

Death calls, and human skill is vain to save ; 
If tli e bright child that clambered to our knee, 

Cold and inactive, fills the silent grave ; 

Then with what wild lament we moan and rave ! 
What passionate tears fall down in ceaseless shower! 

There lies Perfection ! — there, of all life gave — 
The bud that would have proved the sweetest flower 
That ever woke to bloom within an earthly bower ! 

For, in this hope our intellects abjure 

All reason — all experience — and forego 
Belief in that which only is secure, 

Our natural chance and share of human woe. 

The father pitieth David's heart-struck blow, 
But for himself, such augury defies : 

No future Absalom his love can know : 
No pride, no passion, no rebellion lies 
In the unsullied depth of those delightful eyes ! 



MRS. NORTON. 407 

Their innocent faces open like a book, 

Full of sweet prophecies of coming good ; 
And we who pore thereon with loving look, 

Read what we most desire, not what we should ; 

Even that which suits our own Ambition's mood. 
The Scholar sees distinction promised there, — ■ 

The Soldier, laurels in the field of blood, — 
The Merchant, venturous skill and trading fair, — 
None read of broken hope — of failure — of despair! 

Nor ever can a Parent's gaze behold 

Defect of Nature as a stranger doth ; 
For these, with judgment true, severe, and cold, 

Mark the ungainly step of heavy Sloth, — ■ 

Coarseness of features, — tempers easy wroth : 
But those, with dazzled hearts such errors spy, 

A halo of indulgence circling both : 
The plainest child a stranger passes by, 
Shows lovely to the sight of some enamoured eye ! 

The Mother looketh from her latticed pane — 

Her Children's voices echoing sweet and clear : 
With merry leap and bound her side they gain, 

Offering their wild field-fiow'rets : all are dear, 

Yet still she listens with an absent ear : 
For, while the strong and lovely round her press, 

A halt uneven step sounds drawing near : 

And all she leaves, that crippled child to bless, 

Folding him to her heart, with cherishing caress. 

PRAYER FOR THE YOUNG PRINCE. 

They pray for thee, fair child, in Gothic piles, 
Where the full organ's deep reverberate sound 

Rolls echoing through the dim cathedral aisles, 
Bidding the heart with solemn rapture bound, 



408 MRS. NORTON. 

And the bent knee sink trembling to the ground. 
Where, at the signal of some given word, 

The white-robed choristers rise circling round ; 
Mingling clear voices with divine accord, 
In Hallelujahs loud, that magnify the Lord ! 

They pray for thee in many a village church, 

Deep in the shade of its sequestered dell, 
Where, scarcely heard beyond the lowly porch, 

More simple hymns of praise less loudly swell ; 

Oft led by some fair form, — remembered well 
In after years among the grateful poor — 

Whose lot it is in lordly halls to dwell, 
Thence issuing forth to seek the cotter's door, 
Or tread with gentle feet the sanded schoolhouse floor. 

They pray for thee, in floating barks that cleave 

A compass-guided path along the sea ; 
While through the topmast shrouds the keen winds grieve, 

As through the branches of some giant tree ; 

And the surf sparkles in the vessel's lee. 
Far from thine Albion's cliffs and native home, 

Each crew of loyal mariners may be, 
But mingling with the dash of Ocean's foam, 
That prayer shall rise, where'er their trackless course they roam. 

And where, all newly on some foreign soil 

Transplanted from the o'erpeopled Fatherland, 

Where hardy enterprise and honest toil 

Availed them not — the Emigrant's thin band, 
Gathered for English worship, sadly stand ; 

Repressing wandering thoughts, which vainly crave 
The Sabbath clasp of some familiar hand, 

Or yearn to pass the intervening wave, 
And wet with Memory's tears some daisy-tufted grave: — 



MRS. NORTON. 409 

There, even there, thy name is not forgot — 

Child of the land where they were children too ! 
Though severed ties and exile be their lot, 

And Fortune now with different aspect woo, — 

Still to their country and religion true, 
From them the Indian learns, in broken phrase, 

To worship Heaven as his converters do ; 
Simply he joins their forms of prayer and praise, 
And, in Thy native tongue, pleads for Thy valued days. 

COMMON BLESSINGS. 

Those " common blessings !" In this chequered scene 
How little thanksgiving ascends to God ! 

Is it, in truth, a privilege so mean 

To wander with free footsteps o'er the sod, 
See various blossoms paint the valley clod, 

And all things into teeming beauty burst? — 
A miracle as great as Aaron's rod, 

But that our senses, into dullness nurst, 
Recurring Custom still with Apathy hath curst. 

They who have rarest joy, know Joy's true measure ; 

They who most suffer, value Suffering's pause ; 
They who but seldom taste the simplest pleasure, 

Kneel oftenest to the Giver and the Cause. 

Heavy the curtains feasting Luxury draws, 
To hide the sunset and the silver night ; 

While humbler hearts, when care no longer gnaws, 
And some rare holiday permits delight, 
Lingering, with love would watch that earth-enchanting sight. 

"the artist-heart." 
Wilt thou take measure of such minds as these, 

Or sound, with plummet-line the Artist-Heart ? 
Look where he meditates among the trees — 

His eyelids full of love, his lips apart 

35 



410 MRS. NORTON. 

With restless smiles ; while keen his glances dart, 
Above — around — below — as though to seek 

Some dear companion, whom, with eager start, 
He will advance to welcome, and then speak 
The burning thoughts for which all eloquence is weak. 

How glad he looks ! Whom goeth he to meet ? 

Whom? God: — there is no solitude for him. 
Lies the earth lonely round his wandering feet ? 

The birds are singing in the branches dim, 

The water ripples to the fountains' brim, 
The young lambs in the distant meadows bleat ; 

And he himself beguiles fatigue of limb 
With broken lines, and snatches various sweet, 
Of ballads old, quaint hymns for Nature's beauty meet! 

THE PRISON CHAPLAIN. 

I saw one man, armed simply with God's Word, 

Enter the souls of many fellow-men, 
And pierce them sharply as a two edged-sword, 

While conscience echoed back his words again ; 

Till, even as showers of fertilizing rain 
Sink through the bosom of the valley clod, 

So their hearts opened to the wholesome pain, 
And hundreds knelt upon the flowery sod, 
One good man's earnest prayer the link 'twixt them and God. 

That amphitheatre of awe-struck heads 

Is still before me : there the Mother bows, 
And o'er her slumbering infant meekly sheds 

Unusual tears. There, knitting his dark brows, 

The penitent blasphemer utters vows 
Of holy import. There, the kindly man, 

Whose one weak vice went near to bid him lose 
All he most valued when his life began, 
Abjures the evil course which first he blindly ran. 



MRS. NORTON. 411 

There, with pale eyelids heavily weighed down 

By a new sense of overcoming shame, 
A youthful Magdalen, whose arm is thrown 

Round a young sister who deserves no blame ; 

As though like innocence she now would claim, 
Absolved by a pure God ! And, near her, sighs 

The father who refused to speak her name : 
Her penitence is written in her eyes — 
Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her, ere she rise ? 

A FABLE. 

Hear a brief fable. One, with heedless tread, 

Came o'er the wild fair grass that ne'er was mown : 

Then said the grass, — "Your heel is on my head; 
And, where in harmless freedom I have grown, 
Sorely your iron foot hath tramped me down ; 

But God, — who to my veins such freshness gave, 
Shall heal me with a healing of his own, 

Till I, perchance, may lift my head to wave 
Above the marble tomb that presses down your grave." 

NEUTRALITY. 

Oh ! there are moments of our lives, when such 
As will not help to lift us, strike us down ! 

When the green bough just bends so near our clutch, 
When the light rope so easily was thrown, 
That they are murderers that behold us drown. 

Well spoke the Poet-Heart so tried by woe, 

That there are hours when left despairing, lone, 

" Each idle On-looker appears a Foe ;" 
For Hate can scarce do worse, than no compassion show. 

Neutrality is Hate : the aid withheld, 

Flings its large balance in the adverse scale ; 

And makes the enemy we might have quelled, 
Strong to attack, and certain to prevail ; 



412 



MRS. NORTON, 



Yea, clothes him, scoffing, in a suit of mail ! 
Those are the days which teach unhappy elves 

No more such callous bosom to assail ; 
The rocky soil no more the weak one delves ; 
Upright we stand, and trust — in God, and in ourselves. 

THE BLIND. 

The wild bird's carol in the pleasant woods 
Is all he knows of Spring ! The rich perfume 

Of flowers, with all their various scented buds, 
Tells him to welcome Summer's heavy bloom : 
And by the wearied gleaners trooping home, — 

The heavy tread of many gathering feet, — 
And by the laden Wagon-loads that come 

Brushing the narrow hedge with burden sweet, — 
He guesses Harvest in, and Autumn's store complete. 

But in God's Temple the great lamp is out ; 

And he must worship glory in the Dark ! 
Till Death, in midnight mystery, hath brought 

The veiled Soul's re-illuminating spark, — 

The pillar of the Cloud enfolds the ark! 
And, like a man that prayeth underground 

In Bethlehem's rocky shrine, he can but mark 
The lingering hours by circumstance and sound, 
And break with gentle hymns the solemn silence round. 

Yet still Life's Better Light shines out above ! 

And in that village church where first he learned 
To bear his cheerless doom for Heaven's dear love, 

He sits, with wistful face for ever turned 

To hear of those who heavenly pity earned : 
Blind Bartimeus, and him desolate 

Who for Bethesda's waters vainly yearned : 
And inly sighs, condemned so long to wait, 
Baffled and helpless still, beyond the Temple gate ! 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 



There is a heartiness and truthful sympathy with human kind, a 
love of freedom and of nature, in this lady's productions, which, more 
even than their grace and melody, charms her readers. She writes 
like a whole-souled woman, earnestly and unaffectedly, evidently 
giving' her actual thoughts, but never transcending the limits of taste 
or delicacy. The favour with which her numerous pieces have been 
received, and the ease with which she writes, encourage us to hope 
for much future delight and instruction from her generous pen. It may 
be hoped, also, that she will take more pains in the finishing of her 
verses, than she has hitherto done, and avoid a repetition of ideas, a 
fault to which she is somewhat prone. The most of her Poems were 
collected in England, 1840, and republished here 1844, under the title, 
Meluia and other Poems ; the American edition containing many 
pieces written since the date of the English. 



THE FREE. 

The wild streams leap with headlong sweep 
In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep; 
All fresh and strong they foam along, 
Waking the rocks with their cataract song. 
My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance, 
While I watch the waters dash and dance ; 
I burn with glee, for I love to see 
The path of any thing that's free. 

The skylark springs with dew on his wings, 
And up in the arch of heaven he sings 
Trill-la, trill-la — oh, sweeter far 
Than the notes that come through a golden bar. 
35 * ( 413 ) 



414 MISS ELIZA COOK. 

The joyous bay of a hound at play, 

The caw of a rook on its homeward way — 

Oh ! these shall be the music for me, 

For I love the voices of the free. 

The deer starts by with his antlers high, 
Proudly tossing his head to the sky ; 
The barb runs the plain unbroke by the rein, 
With steaming nostrils and flying mane ; 
The clouds are stirred by the eaglet bird, 
As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard. 
Oh ! these shall be the creatures for me, 
For my soul was formed to love the free. 

The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave, 
May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave ; 
And the one whose lot is the desert spot, 
Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot. 
The thrall and state at the palace gate 
Are what my spirit has learnt to hate : 
Oh ! the hills shall be a home for me, 
For I 'd leave a throne for the hut of the free. 

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 

I never see a young hand hold 
The starry bunch of white and gold, 
But something warm and fresh will start 
About the region of my heart. 
My smile expires into a sigh ; 
I feel a struggling in the eye, 
'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, 
Till rolling tears have won their way ; 
For soul and brain will travel back 

Through memory's chequered mazes, 
To days when I but trod life's track 

For buttercups and daisies. 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 

Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, 
Of sober speech and silver hair, 
Who carry counsel, wise and sage, 
With all the gravity of age; 
Oh! say, do ye not like to hear 
The accents ringing in your ear, 
When sportive urchins laugh and shout, 
Tossing those precious flowers about, 
Springing with bold and gleesome bound, 

Proclaiming joy that crazes, 
And chorusing the magic sound 

Of buttercups and daisies ? 
Are there, I ask, beneath the sky 
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie 
With childhood's love ? Can any please 
Or light the infant eye like these ? 
No, no ; there 's not a bud on earth, 
Of richest tint or warmest birth, 
Can ever fling such zeal and zest 
Into the tiny hand and breast. 
Who does not recollect the hours 

When burning words and praises 
Were lavished on those shining flowers, 

Buttercups and daisies ? 

There seems a bright and fairy spell 

About their very names to dwell ; 

And though old Time has marked my brow 

With care and thought, I love them now. 

Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings 

Are closest linked to simplest things ; 

And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, 

Till love, and life, and all be past; 

And then the only wish I have 

Is, that the one who raises 
The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave 

With buttercups and daisies. 



415 



416 MISS ELIZA COOK, 



'Tis passing sad to note the face 
Where haggard grief has ta'en its place, 
Where the soul's keen anguish can but speak 
In the glistening lash and averted cheek — 
When the restless orbs with struggling pride 
Swell with the tears they fain would hide, 
Till the pouring drops and heaving throbs 
Burst forth in strong impassioned sobs. 

'T is fearful to mark where passion reigns, 
With gnashing teeth and starting veins ; 
When the reddened eyeballs flash and glare 
With dancing flame in their maniac stare ; 
When Fury sits on the gathered brow 
With quivering muscle and fiery glow ; 
'Tis fearful indeed just then to scan 
The lineaments of God-like man. 

'T is sad to gaze on the forehead fair, 
And mark the work of suffering there ; 
When the oozing pain-wrung moisture drips, 
And whiteness dwells round the parted lips ; 
When the breath on those lips is so short and faint 
That it falters in yielding the lowest plaint : 
Who does not sigh to read such tale 
On cheeks all shadowy and pale ? 

But have ye watched the mien that bore 
A look to be feared and pitied more — 
Have ye seen the crimson torrent steal 
O'er the one who has erred, and yet can feel — 
When the stammering speech and downcast eye 
Quailed from the mean detected lie ? 
Have ye marked the conscious spirit proclaim 
Its torture 'neath the brand of shame ? 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 417 

Oh ! this to me is the look which hath 
More hideous seeming than honest wrath. 
Let pain distort with its harrowing might, 
Or sorrow rob the glance of its light, 
Yet the pallid chill or the fevered flush 
Sears less than falsehood's scathing blush. 
Nay, look on the brow ; 't is better to trace 
The lines of death than the shade of disgrace. 



STANZAS. 

'Tis well to give honour and glory to age, 
With its lessons of wisdom and truth ; 

Yet who would not go back to the fanciful page, 
And the fairy tale read but in youth ? 

Let time rolling on crown with fame or with gold — 

Let us bask in the kindliest beams ; 
Yet what hope can be cherished, what gift can we hold, 

That will bless like our earlier dreams ? 

As wine that hath stood for awhile on the board 
May yet glow as the luscious and bright •, 

But not with the freshness when first it was poured, 
Nor its brim-kissing sparkles of light. 

As the flowers live on in their fragrance and bloom, 

The long summer-day to adorn, 
Yet fail with their beauty to charm and illume 

As when clothed with the dew gems of morn : 

So life may retain its full portion of joy, 

And fortune give all that she can ; 
But the feelings that gladden the breast of the hoy 

Will never be found in the man. 
2b 



418 MISS ELIZA COOK 



CUPID'S arrow. 

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, 

And besought him to look at his arrow. 
" ' T is useless," he cried ; " you must mend it, I say ; 

'T is n't fit to let fly at a sparrow. 
There 's something that 's wrong in the shaft or the dart, 

For it flutters quite false to my aim ; 
'T is an age since it fairly went home to the heart, 

And the world really jests at my name. 

" I have straightened, I 've bent, I 've tried all, I declare, 

I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; 
'T is feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, 

And the barb gleams with light from young eyes ; 
But it falls without touching — I '11 break it, I vow, 

For there's Hymen beginning to pout; 
He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low 

That Zephyr might puff it right out." 

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, 

Till Vulcan the weapon restored. 
" There, take it, young sir ; try it now — if it fail, 

I will ask neither fee nor reward." 
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made ; 

The wounded and dead were untold; 
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, 

For the arrow was laden with gold. 



THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE, 

We gathered round the festive board, 

The crackling fagot blazed, 
But few would taste the wine that poured, 

Or join the song we raised. 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 419 

For there was now a glass unfilled — 

A favoured place to spare ; 
All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled — 

The loved one was not there. 

No happy laugh was heard to ring, 

No form would lead the dance ; 
A smothered sorrow seemed to fling 

A gloom in every glance. 
The grave had closed upon a brow, 

The honest, bright, and fair ; 
We missed our mate, we mourned the blow — 

The loved one was not there. 



HOME IN THE HEART. 

Oh ! ask not a home in the mansions of pride, 

Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ; 
Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold, 

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. 
But seek for a bosom all honest and true, 

Where love once awakened will never depart; 
Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, 

And you '11 find there 's no home like a home in the heart. 

Oh ! link but one spirit that 's warmly sincere, 

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care ; 
Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, 

And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. 
Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot, 

The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start, 
But a star never dim sheds a halo for him 

Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. 



420 MISS ELIZA COOK. 



Blandly glowing, richly bright 
Cheering star of social light ; 
While I gently heap it higher, 
How I bless thee, sparkling fire ■ 
Who loves not the kindly rays 
Streaming from the tempered blaze ? 
Who can sit beneath his hearth 
Dead to feeling, stern to mirth ? 
Who can watch the crackling pile 
And keep his breast all cold the while ? 

Fire is good, but it must serve : 
Keep it thralled — for if it swerve 
Into freedom's open path, 
What shall check its maniac wrath ? 
Where 's the tongue that can proclaim 
The fearful work of curbless flame ? 
Darting wide and shooting high, 
It lends a horror to the sky ; 
It rushes on to waste, to scare, 
Arousing terror and despair ; 
It tells the utmost earth can know 
About the demon scenes below ; 
And sinks at last, all spent and dead, 
Among the ashes it has spread. 

Sure the poet is not wrong 
To glean a moral from the song. 
Listen, youth ! nor scorn, nor frown, 
Thou must chain thy passions down. 
Well to serve, but ill to sway, 
Like the fire they must obey. 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 421 

They are good in the subject state 
To strengthen, warm, and animate ; 
But if once we let them reign, 
They sweep with desolating train, 
Till they but leave a hated name, 
A ruined soul, and blackened fame. 



STANZAS. 

I 've tracked the paths of the dark wild wood, 

No footfall there but my own; 
I 've lingered beside the moaning flood, 

But I never felt alone. 
There were lovely things for my soul to meet, 

Rare work for my eye to trace : 
I held communion close and sweet 

With a Maker — face to face. 

1 have sat in the cheerless, vacant room, 

At the stillest hour of night, 
With naught to break upon the gloom 

But the taper's sickly light ; 
And there I have conjured back again 

The loved ones, lost and dead, 
Till my swelling heart and busy brain 

Have hardly deemed them fled. 

I may rove the waste or tenant the cell, 

But alone I never shall be ; 
While this form is a home where the spirit may dwell, 

There is something to mate with me. 
Wait till ye turn from my mindless clay 

And the shroud o'er my breast is thrown, 
And then, but not till then, ye may say, 

That I am left alone ! 
36 



422 MISS ELIZA COOK. 



THE WELCOME BACK. 



Sweet is the hour that brings us home, 

Where all will spring to meet us ; 
Where hands are striving, as we come, 

To be the first to greet us. 
When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath, 

And care hath been sorely pressing : 
'T is sweet to turn from our roving path, 

And find a fireside blessing. 
Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track, 
If we are but sure of a welcome back. 

What do we reck on a dreary way, 

Though lonely and benighted, 
If we know there are lips to chide our stay, 

And eyes that will beam love-lighted ? 
What is the worth of your diamond ray, 

To the glance that flashes pleasure ; 
When the words that welcome back betray. 

We form a heart's chief treasure ? 
Oh, joyfully dear is our homeward track, 
If we are but sure of a welcome back 



WASHINGTON. 

Land of the west ! though passing brief the record of thine age, 
Thou hast a name that darkens all on history's wide page ! 
Let all the blasts of fame ring out — thine shall be loudest far : 
Let others boast their satellites — thou hast the planet star. 
Thou hast a name whose characters of light shall ne'er depart ; 
'T is stamped upon the dullest brain, and warms the coldest heart ; 
A war-cry fit for any land where freedom's to be won. 
Land of the west ! it stands alone — it is thy Washington ! 





MISS ELIZA COOK. 




423 


Rome had its 


Caesar, 


great and 


brave ; but 


stain 


was on his 


wreath : 












He lived the heartless 


conqueror, 


and died the 


tyrant 


's death. 


France had its 


Eagle 


; but his wings, though 


lofty they might 


soar, 












Were spread in false 


ambition's 


flight, and c 1 


ipped 


in murder's 



gore. 
Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have chained 

the waves — 
Who fleshed their blades with tiger zeal, to make a world of 

slaves — 
Who, though their kindred barred the path, still fiercely waded 

on — 
Oh, where shall be their " glory" by the side of Washington ? 

He fought, but not with love of strife ; he struck but to defend ; 
And ere he turned a people's foe, he sought to be a friend. 
He strove to keep his country's right by reason's gentle word, 
And sighed when fell injustice threw the challenge — sword to 

sword. 
He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and sage ; 
He showed no deep, avenging hate — no burst of despot rage. 
He stood for liberty and truth, and dauntlessly led on, 
Till shouts of victory gave forth the name of Washington. 

No car of triumph bore him through a city filled with grief; 
No groaning captives at the wheels proclaimed him victor chief: 
He broke the gyves of slavery with strong and high disdain, 
And cast no sceptre from the links when he had crushed the 

chain. 
He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings down 
To change them for the regal vest, and don a kingly crown ; 
Fame was too earnest in her joy — too proud of such a son — 
To let a robe and title mask a noble Washington. 



424 MISS ELIZA COOK. 

England, my heart is truly thine — my loved, my native earth ! — 
The land that holds a mother's grave, and gave that mother 

birth ! 
Oh, keenly sad would be the fate that thrust me from thy shore, 
And faltering my breath, that sighed, " Farewell for evermore!" 
But did I meet such adverse lot, 1 would not seek to dwell 
Where olden heroes wrought the deeds for Homer's song to tell. 
Away, thou gallant ship ! I'd cry, and bear me swiftly on : 
But bear me from my own fair land to that of Washington ! 

'tis sweet to love in childhood. 

'Tis sweet to love in childhood, when the souls that we bequeath 
Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreath ; 
When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the leaping hound, 
And linger latest on the spot where buttercups are found ; 
When we seek the bee and ladybird with laughter, shout, and 

song, 
And think the day for wooing them can never be too long : 
Oh ! 't is sweet to love in childhood, and though woke by meanest 

things, 
The music that the heart yields then, will never leave its strings. 

'T is sweet to love in after years the sweet one by our side, 
To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope, and pride; 
To think the chain around her breast will hold still warm and 

fast, 
And grieve to know that Death must come to break the link at 

last. 
But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning hue by hue, 
When eyes forget their kindly beams and lips become less true ; 
When stricken hearts are pining on through many a lonely hour 
Who would not sigh, " 'T is safer far to love the bird and flower ?" 

'T is sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of Fame, 
To pant to live on Glory's scroll, though blood may trace the 
name ; 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 425 

'T is sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it to our breast — 
To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of our rest. 
But such devotion will not serve, however strong the zeal, 
To overflow the altar where our childhood loved to kneel. 
Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of wealth and power, 
And then proud man would fain go back to worship bird and 
flower. 



THE LAST GOOD-BYE. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! is often heard 

From the lips of those who part : 
'T is a whispered tone, 'tis a gentle word, 

But it springs not from the heart. 
It may serve for the lover's lay, 

To be sung 'neath a summer sky ; 
But give me the lips that say 

The honest words, "Good-bye !" 

Adieu ! Adieu ! may greet the ear 

In the guise of courtly speech ; 
But when we leave the kind and dear, 

'T is not what the soul would teach. 
Whene'er we grasp the hands of those 

We would have for ever nigh, 
The flame of friendship burns aud glows 

In the warm, frank words, " Good-bye !" 

The mother sending forth her child 

To meet with cares and strife, 
Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears 

For the loved one's future life. 
No cold u adieu," no « farewell," lives 

W r ithin her choking sighs ; 
But the deepest sob of anguish gives, 

" God bless thee, boy ! — good-bye !" 
36* 



426 MISS ELIZA COOK. 

Go, watch the pale and dying one, 

When the glance has lost its beam — 
When the brow is cold as the marble stone, 

And the world a passing dream ; 
And the latest pressure of the hand, 

The look of the closing eye, 
Yield what the heart must, understand — 

A long, a last "Good-bye." 

THE HEART, THE HEART. 

The heart — the heart! oh! let it be 

A true and bounteous thing ; 
As kindly warm, as nobly free, 

As eagle's nestling wing. 
Oh ! keep it not, like miser's gold, 

Shut in from all beside ; 
But let its precious stores unfold, 

In mercy, far and wide. 
The heart — the heart, that's truly blest, 

Is never all its own ; 
No ray of glory lights the breast 

That beats for self alone. 

The heart — the heart! oh! let it spare 

A sigh for other's pain ; 
The breath that soothes a brother's care 

Is never spent in vain 
And though it throb at gentlest touch, 

Or Sorrow's faintest call, 
'T were better it should ache too much, 

Than never ache at all. 
The heart — the heart, that 's truly blest, 

Is never all its own ; 
No ray of glory lights the breast 

That beats for self alone. 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 427 



THE DYING OLD MAN TO HIS YOUNG WIFE. 

Kate, there 's a trembling at my heart, a coldness at my brow, 
My sight is dim, my breath is faint, I feel I 'm dying now ; 
But ere my vision fadeth quite, ere all of strength be o'er, 
Oh ! let me look into thy face and press thy hand once more. 

I would my latest glance should fall on what I hold most dear : 
But, ah ! thy cheek is wet again — wipe, wipe away the tear. 
Such tears of late have often gemmed thy drooping eyelid's fringe, 
Such tears of late have washed away thy young cheek's ruddy 
tinge. 

I brought thee from a simple home to be an old man's bride, 
Thou wert the altar where I laid affection, joy, and pride ; 
My heart's devotion, like the sun, shone forth with dimless power, 
And kept its brightest glory rays to mark its setting hour. 

I brought thee from a simple home, when early friends had met, 
And something filled thy farewell tone that whispered of regret. 
Oh ! could I wonder, when you left warm spirits like your own, 
To dwell upon far distant earth with age and wealth alone ? 

I gazed with holy fondness on thy meek retiring eye, 

Soft in its beaming as the first fair star of evening's sky ; 

I marked the dimpled mirth around thy sweet lips when they 

smiled, 
And while I loved thee as a bride I blest thee as a child. 

But, oh ! thy young and glowing heart could not respond to mine, 
My whitened hairs seemed mocked by those rich sunny curls of 

thine ; 
And though thy gentle faith was kind as woman's faith can be, 
'T was as the spring-flower clinging round the winter-blighted 

tree. 



428 MISS ELIZA COOK. 

My speech is faltering and low — the world is fading fast — 
The sands of life are few and slow — this day will be my last - , 
I 've something for thine ear — bend close — list to my failing 

word, 
Lay what I utter to thy soul, and start not when 't is heard. 

There 's one who loves thee — though his love has never lived 

in speech — 
He worships as a devotee the star he cannot reach ; 
He strives to mask his throbbing breast and hide its burning glow ; 
But I have pierced the veil and seen the struggling heart below. 

Nay, speak not. I alone have been the selfish and unwise; 
Young hearts will nestle with young hearts, young eyes will 

meet young eyes. 
And when I saw his earnest glance turn hopelessly away, 
I thanked the hand of Time that gave me warning of decay. 

I question not thy bosom, Kate — I cast upon thy name 

No memory of jealous fear, no lightest shade of blame. 

I know that he has loved thee long, with deep and secret truth ; 

I know he is a fitting one to bless thy trusting youth. 

Weep not for me with bitter grief ; I would but have thee tell, 
That he who bribed thee to his heart has cherished thee right 

well. 
I give thee to another, Kate — and may that other prove 
As grateful for the blessing held, as doting in his love. 

Bury me in the churchyard where the dark yew branches wave, 
And promise thou wilt come sometimes to weed the old man's 

grave ; 
'Tis all I ask! I'm blind — I'm faint — take, take my parting 

breath — 
I die within thy arms, my Kate, and feel no sting of death. 



MISS ELIZA COOK. 429 



HARVEST SONG. 

I love, I love to see 

Bright steel gleam through the land ; 
'Tis a goodly sight, but it must be 

In the reaper's tawny hand. 

The helmet and the spear 

Are twined with laurel wreath ; 

But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear, 
And blood-spots rest beneath. 

I love to see the field 

That is moist with purple stain; 
But not where bullet, sword, and shield, 

Lie strown with gory slain. 

No, no: 'tis when the sun 

Shoots down his cloudless beams, 

Till the rich and bursting juice-drops run 
On the vineyard earth it streams. 

My glowing heart beats high 

At the sight of shining gold ; 
But is not that which the miser's eye 

Delighteth to behold. 

A brighter wealth by far 

Than the deep mine's yellow vein, 
Is seen around, in the fair hills crowned 

With sheaves of burnished grain. 

Look forth, ye toiling men ; 

Though little ye possess, 
Be glad that dearth is not on earth, 

To leave that little less. 



130 MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE. 

Let the song of praise be poured, 

In gratitude and joy, 
By the rich man with his garners stored, 

And the ragged gleaner boy. 

The feast that warfare gives 

Is not for one alone — 
'T is shared by the meanest slave that lives, 

And the tenant of a throne. 

Then glory to the steel 

That shines in the reaper's hand ; 

And thanks to God, who has blessed the sod, 
And crowns the harvest land ! 



MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE, 

In some fugitive pieces, but especially in her exquisite prose tale 
Phantasmion (1837), has evinced poetical talent of no common order. 
With an imagination like a prism shedding rainbow changes on her 
thoughts, she shows study without the affectation of it, and a Greek- 
like closeness of expression. The following song is not a translation, 
nor an imitation of Sappho's famous ode, yet is conceived in the same 
spirit. 



' One face alone, one face alone, 
These eyes require ; 
But when that longed-for sight is shown, 
What fatal fire 
Shoots thro' my veins a keen and liquid flame, 
That melts each fibre of my wasting frame ! 



MRS. SARAH HENRY COLERIDGE. 431 

One voice alone, one voice alone, 

I pine to hear-, 
But when its meek, mellifluous tone 
Usurps mine ear, 
Those slavish chains about my soul are wound, 
Which ne'er, till death itself, can be unbound. 

One gentle hand, one gentle hand, 

I fain would hold ; 
But when it seems at my command, 
My own grows cold ; 
Then low to earth I bend in sickly swoon, 
Like lilies drooping mid the blaze of noon.' 



A MOTHER OVER HER CHILD DEVOTED TO DEATH. 

' O sleep, my babe ! Hear not the rippling wave, 
Nor feel the breeze that round thee lingering strays, 
To drink thy balmy breath, 
And sigh one long farewell. 

Soon shall it mourn above thy watery bed, 
And whisper to me on the wave-beat shore, 

Deep murm'ring in reproach 

Thy sad, untimely fate. 

Ere those dear eyes had opened on the light. 
In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold ; 
O ! wakened but to sleep, 
Whence it can wake no more ! 

A thousand and a thousand silken leaves 
The tufted beach unfolds in early spring, 

All clad in tenderest green, 

All of the self-same shape : 



432 MISS LOWE. 

A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, 

Each year sends forth, yet every mother views 

Her last, not least, beloved 

Like its dear self alone. 

No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped 
The face to-morrow's sun shall first reveal, 
No heart hath e'er conceived 
What love that face will bring. 

O sleep, my babe ! nor heed how mourns the gale 
To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, 
As when it deeply sighs 
O'er autumn's latest bloom. 



MISS LOWE, 

Daughter of the Dean of Exeter, in her ' Poems chiefly Dramatic 
(1840), excites our wonder by her truly classical spirit and Miltonian 
English. Here is an extract from her "Cephalus and Procris," which 
sings in strophe and antistrophe like an ancient tragic chorus. 



HOUR OF NIGHT DEPARTING. 

Soft pacing down the western sky, 
Sad-suited Night in silence goes ; 
Her dragons slow, with sleepless eye, 

She guideth to repose. 
And following still the noiseless wain, 
I must not loiter from her train ; 
Nor ever gaze on light's gay throng, 
Nor join my sisters' dance and song, 
When glows the orient main. 



MISS LOWE 



433 



Her cypress veil, far-floating spread, 
In darkness shrouds my drooping head, 
And solemn is our gliding tread 
Towards Erebus' domain. 



HOUR OF DAWN. 

With hovering skirts the horizon shading, 

How tardily grave Night retires ! 
Now from the empyrean fading, 

Winking stars withdraw their fires ; 
Yet doth the east look wan and chill — 
Ah ! why, Aurora, slumber'st still ? 
Daughter of Hyperion, rise ! 

In saffron robes and bright array. 
With many-mingling roseate dyes ; 

Nor wrapt in sober amice grey. 
Thy belted knight, Orion strong, 
On his far journey lingereth long, 

Nor yet thy coming spies. 
High above old Ocean's stream 
Phosphor flames with herald beam ; 
The mist-hung hills thine absence know, 
The vales and pleasant meads below, — 
All bathed in cooling dews they lie 
Beneath the pale transparent sky. 
To meet thee o'er yon Indian steeps 
Pard-borne Bacchus vigil keeps ; 
All night he swept the desert plain, 
With revel rude, and reckless train 
Of frantic Thyades around, 
Startling with unwonted sound 
Sleep's leaden ear in silence bound. 

37 2 c 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER, 



Daughter of Charles Kernble, and niece of John Philip Kemble and 
Mrs. Siddons, shares in an eminent degree the mind of her distinguished 
family, and has given the world by her writings proof of remarkable 
talent. Her career as an actress, for which profession she was care- 
fully educated, was most brilliantly successful both in England and 
this country. In 1834 she left the stage and became the wife of Pierce 
Butler, Esq., of Philadelphia; but in 1845 she returned to England, 
where she now resides, separated from her husband and her children ; 
and the influence of these circumstances is traceable through her pro- 
ductions since. 

When yet quite young she produced her two dramas, Francis the 
First and The Star of Seville ; both of which show a range of read- 
ing and a maturity of mind very remarkable in one of her years. The 
first was very successful, as may be learned from its having passed 
through more than ten rapidly consecutive editions. Though better 
adapted to the stage, it is not stamped with the same originality, nor 
does it contain so many striking passages, as the second, from which we 
prefer chiefly to quote. Her smaller poems display poetical genius of 
a very high order; though many of them, being expressions of indivi- 
dual feeling, desponding and sadly reminiscent, have not a sufficient 
comprehensiveness of thought. Her versification is very bold and 
vigorous, and her rhythm is often melodious beyond any other writer of 
equal strength. Her sonnets, especially when she forgets herself, are 
among the finest in our language ; and it is easy to see that, if a more 
apprehensive faith in the eternal future uplifted her thoughts, those of a 
personal character would be closely allied to some of Milton's. As it 
is, she is nobly disdainful of all mawkishness or artificial conceit. She 
dashes at her main idea with an honest earnestness, which one can 
scarcely help believing is a principal trait of her character. This, 
when she writes prose, sometimes becomes the fault of blunt reckless- 
ness, as may be seen in the random Journal of her residence in this 
country, which with many home-truths contains many hasty, extrava- 
(434) 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 435 

grant censures, alluded to repentingly in her latest volume, A Year of 
(Jonsohiliiin. 

While Mrs. Butler resided in this country, she contributed many 
pieces of great merit to different magazines, &c, most of which being 
within reach are doubtless so familiar to the reader that their insertion 
here would be superfluous. They were collected, with others of her 
poems, in a small volume published by Mr. John Pennington, 1844 ; and 
having been written and first printed on this side of the Atlantic, belong 
rather to the class of American poetry. 



ONE AGE LIKE ANOTHER. 

(FROM FRANCIS THE FIRST.) 

* * * I to look on, and criticize as age 

Ever will do, drawing comparisons 

'Twixt that which is, and that which hath been once. 

MARGARET. 

Envious comparisons ! say, are they not ? 

Surely the world alters not every day, 

That those, who played their parts but some score years 

Gone by, should cry out, ' How the times are altered !' — 

I do appeal to thy philosophy; 

Say, is it so, Chabannes ? 

CHABANNES. 

In sober truth, then, in philosophy, 

Since thus your grace commands, I do believe 

That at our feet the tide of time flows on 

In strong and rapid course ; nor is one current 

Or rippling eddy liker to the rest 

Than is one age unto its predecessor : 

Men still are men, the stream is still a stream, 

Through every change of changeful tide and time ; 

And 't is, I fear, only our partial eye 

That lends a brighter sunbeam to the wave 

On which we launched our own advent'rous bark. 



436 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER 



THE QUEEN AND DE BOURBON. 

What if a woman's hand were to bestow 
Upon the Duke de Bourbon such high honours, 
To raise him to such state, that grasping man, 
E'en in his wildest thoughts of mad ambition, 
Ne'er dreamt of a more glorious pinnacle ? 

BOURBON. 

I 'd kiss the lady's hand, an she were fair. 
But if this world filled up the universe, — 
If it could gather all the light that lives 
In every other star, or sun, or world ; 
If kings could be my subjects, and that I 
Could call such power and such a world my own, 
I would not take it from a woman's hand. 
Fame is my mistress, madam, and my sword 
The only friend I ever wooed her with. 
I hate all honours smelling of the distaff, 
And, by this light, would as lief wear a spindle 
Hung round my neck, as thank a lady's hand 
For any favour greater than a kiss. 

QUEEN. 

And how, if such a woman loved yon, — how 
If, while she crowned your proud ambition, she 
Could crown her own ungovernable passion, 
And felt that all this earth possessed, and she 
Could give, were all too little for your love ? 
Oh good, my lord ! there may be such a woman. 

bourbon (aside). 
Amazement ! can it be, sweet Margaret, 
That she has read our love ? — impossible ! — and yet — 
That lip ne'er wore so sweet a smile ! — it is, 
That look is pardon and acceptance ! (Aloud) — Speak ! 
(He falls at. the Queen's feet.) 
Madam, in pity speak but one word more, — 
Who is that woman ? 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 437 

queen (throwing off her veil). 
I am that woman. 
bourbon (starting up). 
You, by the holy mass ! I scorn your proflers ! — 
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame 
And shrinking womanhood ! Oh shame ! shame! shame! 

a soldier' s love. 

Ay. 

But ere I go, perchance for ever, lady, 
Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles, 
Where thousands strewed the earth, have christened it 
The Frenchman's grave ; I'd speak of such a theme 
As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly than 
Its name gives promise. There's a love, which, born 
In early days, lives on through silent years, 
Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow 
When it shows brightest — like the trembling light 
Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face 
Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare. 
Thus much forgive ! and trust, in such an hour, 
I had not said e'en this, but for the hope 
That when the voice of victory is heard 
From the far Tuscan valleys, in its swell 
Should mournful dirges mingle for the dead, 
And I be one of those who are at rest, 
You may chance recollect this word, and say, 
That day, upon the bloody field, there fell 
One who had loved thee long, and loved thee well. 

A FAIR AND VIRTUOUS WOMAN. 

And I marvel, sir, 
At those who do not feel the majesty, — 
By heaven ! I'd almost said the holiness, — 
That circles round a fair and virtuous woman ! 

37* 



438 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 

There is a gentle purity that breathes 
In such a one, mingled with chaste respect, 
And modest pride oi' her own excellence, — 
A shrinking nature, that is so adverse 
To aught unseemly, that I could as soon 
Forget the sacred love I owe to heaven, 
As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air 
Inhaled by such a being : than whom, my liege, 
Heaven cannot look on anything more holy, 
Or earth be proud of anything more fair. 

woman's heart. 

A young maiden's heart 
Is a rich soil, wherein lie many germs 
Hid by the cunning hand of nature there 
To put forth blossoms in their fittest season ; 
And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil 
With its embracing tendrils clasping it, 
Other affections, strong and warm, will grow, 
While that one fades, as summer's flush of bloom 
Succeeds the gentle budding of the spring. 
Maids must be wives, and mothers, to fulfil 
Th' entire and holiest end of woman's being. 

CHARITY FOR THE GREAT. 
CARLOS. 

Ah, my Estrella ! 'tis not fit we judge 
Too hardly of our fellows, whose own souls 
Bear witness hourly to ten thousand frailties 
Which stand unanswered in the sight of Heaven ; 
And least of all, should we be prompt to doom 
Those who upon the precipice of power, 
Swathed in state trappings, over which they trip,— 
Run in a path all briery with temptations 
Still plucking at their skirt as they pass by : 



FRAN CES 


KKMBLE 


BUTLER. 




439 


A N 


OLD HOME. 










CARLOS. 










I love that dear old home ! 


My mother lived there 


Her first sweet 


marriage years, and 


last 


sad 


widowed 


ones 5 
Somp.t.himr nt* ol 


d ancestral n 


ride it. K 


eens 







Though fallen from its earlier power and vastness : 

Marry ! we 're not so wealthy as we were, 

N"or yet so warlike ; still it holds enough 

Of ancient strength and state to prompt the. memory 

To many a " wherefore," and for every answer 

You shall have stories long and wonderful, 

Enougli to make a balladmonger's fortune. 

Old trees do grow around its old grey walls, 

The fellows of my mouldering grandfathers : 

Faith ! they do mock us with their young old age, 

These giant wearers of a thousand summers ! 

Strange, that the seed we sow should bloom and flourish 

When we are faded, flower, fruit, and all ; 

Or, for all things to tend to reproduction, 

Serving th' eternal purposes of life, 

Drawing a vigorous sap into their veins 

From the soil our very bodies fertilise. 

ESTRELLA. 

You have left your home that is, for that which will be ; 
Pray you, some more of that same ancient dwelling. 

CARLOS. 

Nay, I have said too much on't; but that there 
The sunlight seems to my eyes brighter far 
That wheresoever else. I know the forms 
Of every tree and mountain, hill and dell ; 
The waters gurgle forth a tongue I know, — 
It is my home, it will be thine, Estrella ; 
And every leafy glade, and shadowy path, 
Sweet sunny slope, and echo-haunted hollow, 
Hath heard thy name a thousand, thousand times. 



440 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER, 



TRUE AND FALSE LOVE. 

I know the very difference that lies 

'Twixt hallowed love and base unholy lust; 

I know the one is as a golden spur, 

Urging the spirit to all noblest aims ; 

The other but a foul and miry pit, 

O'erthrowing it in midst of its career; 

I know the one is as a living spring 

Of virtuous thoughts, true dealings, and brave deeds - 

Nobler than glory, and more sweet than pleasure, — 

Richer than wealth, begetter of more excellence 

Than aught that from this earth corrupt takes birth, 

Second alone in the fair fruit it bears 

To the unmixed ore of true devotion : 

I know that lust is all of this, spelt backwards ; 

Fouler than shame, and bitterer than sorrow, 

More loathly than most abject penury — 

Nor hath it fruit or bearing to requite it, 

Save sick satiety and good men's scorn. 

He that doth serve true love I love and honour; 

And he that is lust's slave, I do despise, 

Though he were twenty times the King of Spain ; 

Wherewith I do commend me to your favours, 

And leave ye to your parting undisturbed. 

SADNESS IN JOY. 
ESTRELLA. 

Oh, nature knows no other coin for joy 

Or grief, but melts them both alike in tears : 

I have a thousand stifling feelings press 

My heart to bursting; joy to the height of pain 

Comes like a flood upon my every sense ; 

Thy voice runs through my frame like the soft touch 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 441 

Of summer winds o'er trembling harp-strings playing, 
Thy gentle words and looks that, though I love, 
I dare not meet, make my soul faint within me. 
Oh ! Carlos, there is pain in this deep pleasure, 
And e'en our joys taste of earth's bitter root; 
Besides, there is a thought that, hand in hand 
With the sweet promise of our marriage, comes 
Like a shadow upon sunlight, — I must go 
From my dear home — the home of all my life, 
Where I have lived, oh ! such a happy time ! 
Aurora's tears are not more like each other 
Than the bright ever-blessed maiden hours 
That the sun of time has, one by one, dried up. 



THE JOY OF LOVE. 
ESTRELLA. 

O joy ! O joy ! O bright triumphant spirit 
That in my bosom dost a revel keep ! 
Life, life and love, may one heart hold ye both, 
And yet not faint with the surpassing bliss. 
O that I were a bird to spread my wings 
And soar, and soar, and pour my ecstasy 
In a tumultuous stream of gushing song. 
O that I had a universe to fill 
With my exceeding happiness. 

NURSE. 

Keep it, keep it, girl, thy present stock 
Won't last thee till for ever. 

ESTRELLA. 

It is in vain : like the exulting sun, 

My light pursues thy wisdom's conquered shadows, 

And chases them from off my land of hope. 

See, thou false prophet — see where the bright morning 

Stands laughing on the threshold of the east — 



442 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 

Where are the clouds thou saidst didst veil the dawn P 
Look how the waters mirror back again 
The blushing curtains of Aurora's bed. 

fresh and fragrant earth, and glorious skies 

All strewn with rosy clouds — sweet dewy breath 
Of earliest buds unfolded in the night — 
And thou — • thou winged spirit of melody, 
Thou lark that mountest singing to the sun, 
Fair children of the gold-eyed morn, I hail ye ! 
There dwells not one sad thought within my breast ; 
'T is the broad noon-day there of light and love. 
The earth rebounds beneath my joyous feet: 

1 am a spirit — a spirit of hope and joy ! 

NURSE. 

I marvel that my lord has not returned. 

ESTRELLA. 

He has gone riding forth to meet my love, — 
My love, O brighter than the dawning day, 
And sweeter than the breath of evening violets, 
Glorious as victory, and fair as truth, 
Art thou, my love, my lord, my husband! 

DESPAIR FEARLESS. 
RODRIQUEZ. 

How fares it, lady ? 

ESTRELLA. 

Passing strong and well. 
When the sap's in the bough, and the green leaves 
Shoot forth, and shake in the evening wind in spring, 
The lightning may burn up the sprouting tree, 
And blast its healthful life ; but look, good father, 
Didst ever mark a sapless, leafless witherling, 
That stands all shrivelled in the bosky dells, 
Mocking the summer with its barrenness ? 
Think'st thou that blighted thing fears any storm, 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 443 

Or dreads the bolt that makes its forest brothers 
Writhe their green, trembling arms ? — Go to — 'tis past. 

YOUTH CLINGING TO LIFE. 
CARLOS. 

Good holy father, 
I strive in vain : my thoughts, awhile upborne 
Upon the heavenward wings of thy devotion, 
Anchor beyond the dark abysm of death ; 
But soon a thousand fleshly monitors 
Beckon them back with weak and earthly promptings. 
Thou say'st 't is blest to die in penitence, 
And yet I feel 'tis sad to die in youth. 
Ere life has had its share, death claims the whole — 
Ere toil of war and manly enterprise 
Have worn these sinews weary, they must rest, 
Rest in the dust. I bring not to the grave 
Age and disease, a living carrion, 
But healthful limbs, upon whose lusty strength 
The loathsome worm before his time must banquet : 
The blood within my veins is not baked up 
With sullen spleen or frozen o'er with eld, 
It flows a strong, warm, rapid, living tide, 
And I must pour it out upon a scaffold. 

SONG. 

Never, oh never more! shall I behold 

Thy form so fair : 
Or loosen from its braids the rippling gold 

Of thy long hair. 

Never, oh never more ! shall I be blest 

By thy voice low, 
Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast, 

Thy marble brow. 



444 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 

Never, oh never more ! shall I inhale 

Thy fragrant sighs, 
Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veil 

Of thy bright eyes. 



UPON A BRANCH OF FLOWERING ACACIA. 

The blossoms hang again upon the tree, 

As when with their sweet breath they greeted me 

Against my casement, on that sunny morn, 

When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born, 

And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife 

With death and agony that won thy life, 

Their snowy clusters hung on their brown bough, 

E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou. 

They seem to me thy sisters, Oh, my child ! 

And now the air, full of their fragrance mild, 

Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony 

Pulls at my heart-strings, as I think of thee. 

Was it in vain ! Oh, was it all in vain ! 

That night of hope, of terror, and of pain, 

When from the shadowy boundaries of death, 

I brought thee safely, breathing living breath 

Upon my heart — it was a holy shrine, 

Full of God's praise — they laid thee, treasure mine .' 

And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled, 

And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child, 

And solemn joy of a new life was spread, 

Like a mysterious halo round that bed. 

And now how is it, since eleven years 

Have steeped that memory in bitterest tears ? 

Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore, 

Thy childless mother sits lamenting o'er 

Flowers which the spring calls from this foreign earth, 

Thy twins, that crowned the morning of thy birth. 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER 



445 



How is it with thee — lost — lost — precious one ! 

In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone ? 

What warmth unfolds thee? — what sweet dews are shed, 

Like love and patience over thy young head ? 

What holy springs feed thy deep inner life ? 

What shelters thee from passion's deadly strife ? 

What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full and free, 

Lovely and glorious, oh, my fair young tree ? 

G ot l — Father — thou — who by this awful fate 

Hast lopped and stripped, and left me desolate ! 

In the dark bitter floods that o'er my soul 

Their billows of despair triumphant roll. 

Let me not be o'erwhelmed ! — Oh, they are thine, 

These jewels of my life — not mine — not mine ! 

So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth 

Shall, in a gracious growth of love and truth , 

With an abundant harvest honour Thee : 

And bless the blight which Thou hast sent on me ; 

Withering and blasting, tho' it seem to fall, 

Let it not, oh, my Father ! drink up all 

My spirit's sap — so from this fate shall grow 

The palm branch for my hand and for my brow, 

With which, a hopeful pilgrim, I may tread 

The shadowy path where rest awhile the dead, 

Ere they rise up, a glorious company, 

To find their lost ones, and to worship Thee ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

Sorrow and sin, and suffering and strife, 
Have been cast in the waters of my life ; 
And they have sunk deep down to the well-head, 
And all that flows thence is embittered. 
Yet still the fountain up towards Heaven springs, 
And still the brook where'er it wanders sings ; 
38 



446 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 

And still where'er it hath found leave to rest, 
The blessed sun looks down into its breast ; 
And it reflects, as in a mirror lair, 
The image of all beauty shining there. 

TRANSLATION OF A SICILIAN SONG. 

I planted in my heart one seed of love, 

Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care 
It grew — and when I looked that it should prove 

A gracious tree, and blessed harvests bear, 
Blossom nor fruit was there to crown my pain, 
Tears, cares, and labour, all had been in vain ; 
And yet I dare not pluck it from my heart, 
Lest with the deep-struck root my life depart. 

GENIUS AND LOVE. 

Genius and Love together stood 

At break of day beside clear fountains, 
In gardens hedged with laurel wood, 

Screened by a wall of purple mountains ; 
As hand in hand they smiling strayed, 

Love twined a wreath of perfect roses 
On Genius' brow, "And thus," he said, 

" My soul on thy bright soul reposes." 
And round and round they joyous flew, 

On rapid now, now lingering pinion, 
And blissful Love ne'er weary grew 

Of measuring o'er his bright dominion. 
Anon they rested from their flight, 

And thro' the fringes of clear water, 
All rainbow-touched Love chased a sprite, 

The silver Naiad's snowy daughter, 
While Genius lay with flashing eyes, 
Looking into the distant skies. 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 447 

Love paused and said, " What dost thou see ?" 

" The far-off shining of the sea — 

Say, wilt thou thither fly with me?" 
" Is there a home by the v/ild flood ? 

Ah, leave we not our pleasant wood !" 

But suddenly, with eager wings, 

Towards his desire Genius springs; 

So strong his flight, the rosy crown 

At Love's sad feet fell broken down, 

And lay beside him where he sate, 

Waiting the coming of his mate : 

And he returned all gloriously, 

From the foam-caverns of the sea, 

And brought strange heaps of shining treasure 

To Love, who prized beyond all measure 

His mere return : — And now his sight, 

Swift as the eagle's sunward flight, 

Rested upon the mountain's height — 
" Look ! wilt thou thither with me fly, 

Dear Love?" — he cried; and rapidly 

Beat with his golden wings the air. 
« Is there a home for us up there ? 

What seek'st thou on the mountain's brow ?" 
"To see the wide world lie below." 

So he swept thither like the wind, 

And Love remained dismayed behind : 

And now a spirit of the air 

Garlands of noble amaranth bare 

To the Love god beside the fountain, 

And spake — " Lo ! Genius from the mountain 

Sends thee, dear Love, eternal flowers, 

To deck thy pleasant myrtle bowers." 
" Ah !" answered Love, despondingly, 
"Sweet roses would have done for me; 



448 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 

Look, they grow here upon the ground, 

Close to our very home, all round, 

And morn and even may be found — 

When comes he back ?" " Into the sky 

I saw him from the mountain fly 

Higher and higher towards the sun." 

Love sighed, " The day must soon be done, 

And evening shall the wanderer bring, 

With sated soul and weary wing." 

Love knew not tbat bold Genius' flight 

Had passed the realms of day and night, 

Till, from the blue a glorious crown 

Of starry light was towards him thrown; 

He saw th' immortal circlet burn, 

And knew Ids mate would ne'er return : 

He gathered up the rosy wreath, 

With withered leaves, and faint sweet breath, 

And turning to the dark'ning skies 

The tender longing of his eyes, 

He bitterly began to weep, 

And wept himself at last to sleep. 

THE IDEAL. 

Thou shalt behold it once, and once believe 

Thou may'st possess it — Love shall make the dream, 

Impossible and glorious, palpable seem, 

And with the bliss thy soul awhile deceive — 

When from that trance thou wakest, never more 

On earth hope for it, or thy life is o'er; 

That one approach of the Divinity 

Is but the pledge of thy affinity. 

That lovely vision shall not be renewed, 

Though thro' all forms of being close pursued; 

The light must pass into the heavens above thee, 

Thy polar star, to warn and lead and move thee. 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 449 

If thou seek lower for it thou shalt follow 
A fatal marsh-fire, fleeting, false, and hollow; 
Unto the glorious truth thou shalt not soar, 
But sink in darkness down for evermore. 
Not to behold it once is not to live, 
But to possess it is not life's to give. 

SONNET. 

If there were any power in human love, 

Or in th' intensest longing of the heart, 

Then should the oceans and the lands that part 
Ye from my sight all unprevailing prove, 
Then should the yearning of my bosom bring 

Ye here, thro' space and distance infinite; 
And life 'gainst love should be a baffled thing, 

And circumstance 'gainst will lose all its might 
Shall not a childless mother's misery 

Conjure the earth with such a potent spell — ■ 

A charm so desperate — as to compel 
Nature to yield to her great agony ? 

Can I not think of ye till ye arise, 

Alive, alive, before my very eyes ? 

PAST HOURS. 

Two angels have them in their keeping. 

He that beside the deep vaults of the past 
Stands to receive the treasures, that with weeping 

And lamentation into them men cast, 
Forgetting that alone they hold that fast 

Which to his marble store-house they commit; 
And He, that spirit bright and terrible, 

Who at the feet of God doth thoughtful sit, 

Upon whose scroll, in lines of flame are writ 
Each hour of every day of those who dwell 
38* 2d 



450 FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 

Upon this earth : he hath those days and hours, 
Which, as they smiled on us, we counted ours ; 
And who, when that great history appears, 
Shall make us answer, as if we were theirs 



LOOK UP! 

Raise it to Heaven, when thine eye fills with tears, 
For only in a watery sky appears 
The bow of light ; and from th' invisible skies 
Hope's glory shines not, save thro' weeping eyes. 

YOUTH AND AGE. 

Youth with swift feet walks onward in the way, 
The land of joy lies all before his eyes ; 

Age, stumbling, lingers slower day by day, 
Still looking back, for it behind him lies. 

TO PIUS IX. 

It may be that the stone which thou art heaving 
From off thy people's neck shall fall and crush thee ; 
It may be that the sudden flood shall push thee 
From off the rock, whence, prophet-like, believing 
In God's great future, thou dost set it free ; 
Yet heave it, heave it, Heaven high, nor fear 
To be o'erwhelmed in the first wild career 
Of those long prisoned tides of liberty. 
That stone which thou hast lifted from the heart 

Of a whole nation shall become to thee 
A glorious monument, such as no art 
E'er piled above a mortal memory : 
Falling beneath it, thou shalt have a tomb 
That shall make low the loftiest dome in Rome. 



FRANCES KEMBLE BUTLER. 451 
SONNET. 

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn 
O'er joys that God hath for a season lent, 
Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, 
Effeminate soul and base ! weakly to mourn. 
There lies no desert in the land of life, 
For e'en that tract that barrennest doth seem, 
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem 
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife. 
Haply no more, music and mirth and love, 
And glorious things of old and younger art, 
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast, 
But when these bright companions all depart, 
I Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast 
' Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above. 

DEPARTING. 

Pour we libations to the father, Jove, 

And bid him watch propitious o'er our way; 

Pile on the household altar fragrant wreaths, 

And to th' auspicious Lares bid farewell, 

Beneath whose guardianship we have abode. 

Blest be the threshold over which we pass, 

Turning again with hands, devout uplifted ; 

Blest be the roof-tree, and the hearth it shelters ; 

Blest be the going forth and coming home 

Of those who dwell here ; blest their rising up, 

And blest their lying down to holy slumber; 

Blest be the married love, sacred and chaste ; 

Blest be the children's head, the mother's heart, 

The father's hope. Reach down the wanderer's staff, — 

Tie on the sandals on the traveller's feet : 

The wan-eyed morn weeps in the watery east : 

Gird up the loins, and let us now depart. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

(MRS. BROWNING.) 

The poems of this lady are marked with strength of beauty and 
beauty of strength. She is deeply read, being familiar with the original 
of the great ancients (the Greek dramatists having been her particular 
study), and with the more attractive of the Christian fathers. Her trans- 
lation of the untranslatable Prometheus Bound of ./Eschylus received 
high praise as a worthy attempt; and her various writings show that 
she has drunk true inspiration from the fountain to which she has so 
often resorted with the graceful vase of her natural genius. Miss Bar- 
rett is singularly bold and adventurous. Her wing carries her, without 
faltering at their obscurity, into the cloud and the mist, where not sel- 
dom we fail to follow her, but are tempted, while we admire the 
honesty of her enthusiasm, to believe that she utters what she herself 
has but dimly perceived. Much of this, however, arises from her dis- 
dain of carefulness. Her lines are often rude, her rhymes forced, from 
impatience rather than affectation ; and for the same reason, she falls 
into the kindred fault of verboseness, which is always obscure. She 
forgets the advice which Aspasia gave a young poet, " to sow with the 
hand, and not with the bag." Her Greek studies should have taught 
her more sculptor-like finish and dignity ; but the glowing, generous im- 
pulses of her woman's heart are too much for the discipline of the 
classics. Hence it Is that we like her less as a scholar than as a 
woman ; for then she compels our sympathy with her high religious 
faith, her love of children, her delight in the graceful and beautiful, her 
revelations of feminine feeling, her sorrow over the suffering, and her 
indignation against the oppressor. It is easy to see, from the melody 
of rhythm in "Covvper's Grave," and a few shorter pieces, that her 
faults spring not from inability to avoid them, if she would. Her ear, 
like that of Tennyson (whom she resembles more than any other poet), 
thirsts for a refrain ; and like him, she indulges it to the weariness of 
her reader. Her sonnets, though complete in measure, are more like 
fragments, or unfinished outlines; but not a few of them are full of 
vigour. Her verses must be recited ; none of them could be sung. 
There is scarcely anything in the language more exquisitely natural 
(452) 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 453 

than the ballad of The Swan's Nest among the Reeds, which she 
playfully calls a " romance ;". and we may regret that she has not writ- 
ten more in the same delicious strain. As it is, we would scarcely take 
the bays from her muse-like head, but love her better when she herself 
is content to replace it by tiie " simple myrtle," or the wild-flower 
garland from the meadows and hedge-rows of her native England. The 
thyme of Hymettus is not so sweet in her fair hands, as the daisy, the 
cowslip, the violet, or the porch-encircling brier, no unfit emblem of 
love shedding sweetness amidst the thorns of daily life. 

Though we have spoken of this accomplished lady as Miss Barrett, 
because by that name our readers know her best, she has recently been 
married to Mr. Robert Browning, author of Paracelsus, Bells and 
Pomegranates, &c. Her writings which have reached us are: Pro- 
metheus Bound and Miscellaneous Poems, 1833; The Seraphim and 
other Poems, 1838 ; and The Drama of Exile and other Poems, 
1844. 



INANIMATE CREATURES. 

(FKOM THE SERAPHIM.) 

O meek, insensate things ! 
O congregated matters who inherit ! 

Instead of motive powers, 

Impulsions God-supplied — 

Instead of vital spirit, 

A clear informing beauty — 

Instead of creature duty, 

A motion calm as rest ! 

Lights ! without feet or wings, 

In golden courses sliding ! 

Broad glooms ! 'neath masses, hiding, 
Whose lustrous heart away was prest 
Into the argent stars ! 

Ye crystal, nrmamental bars, 

That hold the skyey waters free 

From tide or tempest's ecstasy ! 



454 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Airs universal ! thunders lorn, 
That wait your lightning in cloud-cave 
Hewn out by the winds! O brave 
And subtle Elements ! the Holy- 
Hath charged me by your voice with folly/ 



LOVE OF THE REDEEMED TO GOD. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Ador. Do we love not ? 

Zerah. Yea ! 

But not as man shall '. not with life for death 
New-throbbing through the startled Being ! not 
With strange astonished smiles, that ever may 
Gush passionate like tears, and fill their place ! 
Nor yet with speechless memories of what 
Earth's winters were, deepening th' eternal green 
Of every heavenly palm, 
Whose windless shadeless calm 
Moves only at the breath of the Unseen ! 
Oh! not with this blood on us — and this face, — 
Still, haply, pale with sorrow that it bore 
In our behalf, and tender evermore 
With nature all our own, — toward us gazing ! — 
For yet with these forgiving hands upraising 
Their unreproachful wounds, alone to bless ! 
Alas, Creator ! shall we love Thee less 
Than mortals shall ? 

Ador. Amen ! so let it be ! 

We love in our proportion — to the bound 
Thine infinite, our finite, set around, 
And that is finitely, — Thou, infinite 
And worthy infinite love ! And our delight 
Is watching the dear love poured out to Thee, 



* "His angels He charged with folly." — Job iv. verse 18. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 455 

From ever fuller chalice. Blessed they, 
Who love Thee more than we do ! blessed we, 
Beholding that out-loving lovingness, 
And winning in the sight, a double bliss, 
For all so lost in love's supremacy ! 
The bliss is better ! only on the sad 
Cold earth, there are who say 
It seemeth better to be great than glad. 
The bliss is better ! Love Him more, O man, 
Than sinless seraphs can. 



the sleeping babe. 

(from isobel's child.) 

'T is aye a solemn thing to me 

To look upon a babe that sleeps — 

Wearing in its spirit-deeps 

The unrevealed mystery 

Of its Adam's taint and woe, 

Which, when they revealed be, 

Will not let it slumber so ! 

Lying new in life beneath 

The shadow of the coming death, 

With that soft low quiet breath, 

As if it felt the sun ! — 
Knowing all things by their blooms, 
Not their roots ! — yea ! — sun and sky, 
Only by the warmth that comes 
Out of each ! — earth, only by 
The pleasant hues that o'er it run ! — 
And human love, by drops of sweet 
White nourishment still hanging round 
The little mouth so slumber-bound . — 
All which broken sentiency 



456 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT 

Will gather and unite and climb 

To an immortality 

Good or evil, each sublime, 

Through life and death to life again ! — 

O little lids, now closed fast ! 

Must ye learn to drop at last 

Our large and burning tears ? — 

O warm quick body ! must thou lie, 

When is done the round of years, 

Bare of all the joy and pain, 

Dust in dust — thy place upgiving 

To creeping worms in sentient living? — 

O small frail being ! wilt thou stand 

At God's right hand, — 
Lifting up those sleeping eyes, 
Dilated by sublimest destinies, 
In endless waking ? Thrones and Seraphim, 
Through the long ranks of their solemnities, 
Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven's surprise- 
Thy look alone on Him ? — ■ 



THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

(from the same.) 

"'Dear Lord, dear Lord!" 

She aye had prayed — (the heavenly word, 

Broken by an earthly sigh !) 
" Thou, who didst not erst deny 

The mother-joy to Mary mild 

Blessed in the blessed child — 

Hearkening in meek babyhood 

Her cradle-hymn, albeit used 

To all that music interfused 

In breasts of angels high and gdod ! 



ELIZABETH B . BARRETT. 457 

Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away — 
Oh, take not to thy songful heaven, 
The pretty baby thou hast given ; 
Or ere that I have seen him play 
Around his father's knees, and known 
That he knew how my love hath gone 

From all the world to him ! 
And how that I shall shiver, dim 
In the sunshine, thinking e'er 
The grave-grass keeps it from his fair 
Still cheeks ! and feel at every tread 
His little body which is dead 
And hidden in the turfy fold, 
Doth make the whole warm earth a'cold ! 

God ! I am so young, so young — 

1 am not used to tears at nights 
Instead of slumber — nor to prayer 
With shaken lips and hands out-wrung ! 
Thou knowest all my prayings were 

I bless thee, God, for past delights — 

Thank God !' I am not used to bear 

Hard thoughts of death ! The earth doth cover 

No face from me of friend or lover ! 

And must the first who teacheth me 

The form of shrouds and funerals, be 

Mine own first-born-beloved ? he 

Who taught me first this mother-love ? 

Dear Lord, who spreadest out above 

Thy loving pierced hands to meet 

All lifted hearts with blessing sweet, — 

Pierce not my heart, my tender heart, 

Thou madest tender! Tbou who art 

So happy in thy heaven alway, 

Take not mine only bliss away !" 

39 



458 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

THE CHILD'S ANSWER. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

" O mother, mother ! loose thy prayer .' 
Christ's name hath made it strong ! 
It bindeth me, it holdeth me 
With its most loving cruelty, 
From floating my new soul along 

The blessed heavenly air ! 
It bindeth me, it holdeth me 
In all this dark, upon this dull 
Low earth, by only weepers trod ! — 
It bindeth me, it holdeth me ! — 
Mine angel looketh sorrowful 
Upon the face of God. 

" Mother, mother ! can I dream 
Beneath your earthly trees ? 
I had a vision and a gleam — 
I heard a sound more sweet than these 

When lifted by the wind ! 
Did you see the Dove with wings 
Overdropt with glisterings 
From a sunless light behind 
Falling on mine heart from sky, 
Soft as mother's kiss, until 
I seemed to leap, and yet was still ? 
Saw you how his love-large eye 
Looked on me mystic calms, 
Until the power of his divine 
Vision was indrawn to mine ? 

" Oh ! the dream within the dream ! 
I saw celestial places even ! 
Oh ! the high and vista'd palms, 



ELIZABETH B . BARRETT. 459 

Making finites of delight 
Through the heavenly infinite — 
Lifting up their green still tops 

To the heaven of Heaven ! 
Oh ! the sweet life-tree that drops 
Shade like light across the river 
Glorified in its for ever 

Flowing from the Throne ! 
Oh ! the shining holinesses 
Of the thousand, thousand faces 
God-sunned by the throned One ! 
Overspread with such a love 
That though I saw them turned above, 
Each loving seemed for also me ! 
And, oh! th' Unspeakable! the He, — 
The manifest in secrecies, 
Yet of mine own heart partaker ! 
With the overcoming look 
Of one who hath been once forsook, 

And blesseth the forsaker! 
Mother, mother, let me go 
Toward the face that looketh so ! 
Through the mystic living Four 
Whose are inward outward eyes 
Dark with light of mysteries, 
And the restless evermore 
"Holy holy" — through the crowned 
Stately elders white around — 
Through the sworded Seraphim — 
Suffer me to go to Him ! 

" Is your wisdom very wise, 
Mothec, on the narrow earth ? 
Very happy, very worth 
That I should stay to learn ? 
Are these air-corrupting sighs 



460 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Fashioned by unlearned breath ? 
Do the students' lamps that burn 
All night, illumine death ? 
Mother ! albeit this be so, 
Loose thy prayer, and let me go 
Where that bright chief angel stands 
Apart from all his brother bands, 
Too glad for smiling ! having bent 
In angelic wilderment 
O'er the depths of God, and brought 
Reeling, thence, one only thought 
To fill his whole eternity ! 
He the teacher is for me ! — 
He can teach what I would know — 
Mother, mother, let me go ! — 
Can your poet make an Eden 

No winter will undo ? 
And light a starry fire, in heeding 

His hearth's is burning too ? 
Drown in music, earthly din ? — 
And keep his own wild soul within 
The law of his own harmony ? — 
Mother ! albeit this be so, 
Let me to mine Heaven go ! 
A little harp me waits thereby — 
A harp whose strings are golden all, 
And tuned to music spherical, 
Hanging on the green life-tree, 
Where no willows ever be. 
Shall I miss that harp of mine ? 
Mother, no! — the Eye divine 
Turned upon it, makes it shine — 
And when I touch it, poems sweet 
Like separate souls shall fly from it, 
Each to an immortal fytte ! 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 461 

We shall all be poets there, 
Gazing on the chiefest Fair ! 

" And love ! earth's love ! and can we love 
Fixedly where all things move ? 
Can the sinning love each other ? 

Mother, mother, 
I tremble in thy close embrace — 
I feel thy tears adown my face — 
Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss — 

O dreary earthly love ! 
Loose thy prayer, and let me go 
To the place that loving is, 
Yet not sad ! and when is given 
Escape to thee from this below, 
Thou shalt see me that I wait 
For thee at the happy gate ; 
And silence shall be up in heaven, 
To hear our meeting kiss !" 



THE CITY. 

(FROM THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 

I dwell amid the city. 
The great humanity which beats 
Its life along the stony streets, 
Like a strong unsunned river 
In a self-made course, is ever 

Rolling on, rolling on ! — 
I sit and hear it as it rolls, 
That flow of souls! 

The infinite tendencies, 
In the finite, chafed and pent, — ■ 
In the finite, turbulent ! — 

The long drear monotone, 



39 



46'2 ELIZABETH B. BAREETT. 

Made of many tones that rise 
Eacli to each as contraries ! — 
The rich man's ambling steeds — 
Lolling their necks as the chariot comes 
With its inward gleam of the eddying plumes! — 

The poor man's abject needs — 
The feet that wearily, wearily roam, 
Unquickened by thoughts of the fire at home — 
The cry of the babe unheard of its mother, 
Though it lie on her breast, while she thinks of the other 
Laid yesterday in tomb ! — 
The whine of voices that have made 
Their own grief's sacredness a trade — 
The curse that ringeth hollowly 
The crime against the misery — 
The haggling talk — the organ's grinding — 
The grinder's face being o'er it leant, 

Most vacant even of woe, — 
While the children's hearts leap so 

At the merry music's winding! — ■ 
The rapid pace of the business-men 
Whose eyes do glitter cold, 
As still they saw the gold ! — 
The funeral's long slow train. 
Plumed black, beside 
Many a house where the rioters laugh 
And count the beakers they shall quaff 
At the morrow's festivals — 
Many a house where sits a bride 
Trying the morrow's coronals, 
With a red blush, even to-day! — 

Slowlv creep the funerals, — 
As none should hear the noise and say 
The living, the living, must go away 
To multiply the dead ! 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 463 

Hark ! an upward shout is sent ! 
In grave strong joy from tower to steeple 

The bells ring out — 
The trumpets sound, the people shout, 
The young Queen goes to her parliament! — 
She turneth round her large blue eyes, 
More bright with childish memories 
Than royal hopes, upon the people — 
On either side she bows her head 

Lowly, with a Queenly grace, 
And smile most trusting-innocent, 
As if she smiled to her mother ! 
The thousands press before each other 

To bless her to her face — 
And booms the deep majestic voice 
Through trump and drum — " May the Queen rejoice 

In the people's liberties !" — 

I dwell amid the city, 

And hear the flow of souls ! 
I do not hear the several contraries — 
I do not hear the separate tone that rolls 

In act or speech, 
For pomp or trade, for merrymake or folly — 
I hear the confluence and sum of each, 

And that is melancholy ! — 
Thy voice is a complaint, O crowned city, 
The blue sky covering thee, like God's great pity ! — 

THE MEDIATOR. 

(a hymn.) 

How high Thou art ! our songs can own 
No music Thou couldst stoop to hear ! 

But still the Son's expiring groan 
Is vocal in the Father's ear. 



464 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

How pure Thou art ! our hands are dyed 
With curses, red with murder's hue — 

But He that stretched His hands to hide 
The sins that pierced them from thy view. 

How strong Thou art ! we tremble lest 
The thunders of thine arm be moved — 

But He is lying on thy breast, 

And thou must clasp thy best Beloved ! 

How kind thou art ! Thou didst not choose 
To joy in Him for ever so ; 

But that embrace thou wilt not lose 
For vengeance, didst for love forego ! 

High God, and pure, and strong, and kind ! 

The low, the foid, the feeble, spare ! 
Thy brightness in His face we find — ■ 

Behold our darkness only there ! 



THE PET-NAME. 



the name 



Which from their lips seemed a caress. 

Miss Mitform s Dramatic Scenes. 

I have a name, a little name, 

Uncadenced for the ear ; 
Unhonoured by ancestral claim, 
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm 

The solemn font anear. 

It never did to pages wove 

For gay romaunt, belong : 
It never dedicate did move 
As ' Sacharissa,' unto love — 

' Orinda,' unto song. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 465 

Though I write books, it will be read 

Upon the leaves of none ; 
And afterward, when I am dead, 
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread 

Across my funeral stone. 

Whoever chanceth it to call, 

May chance your smile to win ; — 
Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
Over mine eyes, and feel withal 

The sudden tears within ! 

Is there a leaf that greenly grows 

Where summer meadows bloom, 
But gathereth the winter snows, 
And changeth to the hue of those, 

If lasting till they come ? 

Is there a word, or jest, or game, 

But time encrusteth round 
With sad associates thoughts the same ? 
And so to me my very name 

Assumes a mournful sound. 

My brother gave that name to me 

When we were children twain; 
When names acquired baptismally 
Were hard to utter, as to see 

That life had any pain. 

No shade was on us then, save one 

Of chestnuts from the hill — 
And through the word our laugh did run 
As part thereof! The mirth being done, 

He calls me by it still ! 
2 E 



466 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 

What none of you can hear ! 

The talk upon the willow seat, 

The bird and wind that did repeat 

Around, our human cheer ! 

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 

My sister's woodland glee — 
My father's praise I did not miss, 
What time he stooped down to kiss 
The poet at his knee — 

And voices — which to name me, aye 
Most tender tones were keeping! 
To some, I never more can say 
An answer, till God wipes away 
In heaven, these drops of weeping ! 

My name to me a sadness wears — 

No murmurs cross my mind — 
Now God be thanked for these thick tears, 
Which show, of those departed years, 
Sweet memories left behind ! 

Now God be thanked for years enwrought 

With love which softens yet ; 
Now God be thanked for every thought 
Which is so tender, it hath caught 
Earth's guerdon of regret ! 

Earth may embitter, not remove, 

The love divinely given : 
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
The immortality of love, 

And lead us nearer Heaven ! 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 467 

THE WAIL OF THE SPIRIT OF EARTH. 

(FROM THE DRAMA OF EXILE.) 

I was so beautiful, so beautiful, 

My joy stood up within me bold and glad, 
To answer God ; and when His work was full, 

To "very good," responded " very glad !" 
Filtered through roses, did the light enclose me ; 
And bunches of the grape swang blue across me — 
Yet I wail! 
***** 
my deep waters, cataract and flood, — 

What wordless triumph did your voices render ! 

mountain-summits, where the angels stood, 

And shook from head and wing thick dews of splendour; 
How with a holy quiet, did your Earthy 
Accept that Heavenly — knowing ye were worthy! 
Yet I wail! 

1 wail, I wail ! Now hear my charge to-day, 

Thou man, thou woman, marked as the misdoers, 
By God's sword at your backs ! I lent my clay 

To make your bodies which had grown more flowers : 
And now, in change for what I lent, ye give me 
The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to cleave me — 
And I wail ! 

I wail, I wail ! Do ye hear that I wail ? 

I had no part in your transgression — none! 
My roses on the bough did bud not pale — 

My rivers did not loiter in the sun. 
J was obedient. Wherefore, in my centre, 
Do I thrill at this curse of death and winter ! — 
And I wail ! 



468 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

I feel your steps, O wandering sinners, strike 
A sense of death to me, and undug graves ! 

The heart of earth, once calm, is trembling, like 
The ragged foam along the ocean-waves : 

The restless earthquakes rock against each other ; — 

The elements moan 'round me — "Mother, mother" 
And I wail! 

CHORUS AFTER THE PROMISE. 

(FROM THE SAME.) 

Exiled human creatures, 

Let your hope grow larger! 
Larger grows the vision 

Of the new delight. 
From this chain of Nature's, 

God is the Discharger; 
And the Actual's prison 

Opens to your sight. 

Calm the stars and golden, 

In a light exceeding ; 
What their rays have measured, 

Let your hearts fulfil ! 
These are stars beholden 

By your eyes in Eden ; 
Yet, across the desert, 

See them shining still. 

Future joy and far light 

Working such relations, — 
Hear us singing gently — 

Exiled is not lost ! 
God, above the starlight, 

God above the patience, 
Shall at last present ye 

Guerdons worth the cost. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 469 

Patiently enduring-, 

Painfully surrounded, 
Listen how we love you — 

Hope the uttermost — 
Waiting for that curing 

Which exalts the wounded, 
Hear us sing above you — 

Exiled, but not lost ! 

(The stars shine on brightly, while Adam and Ete pursue their way into 
the far wilderness. There is a sound through the silence, as of the falling 
tears of an angel.') 

THE LADY'S YES. 

u Yes !" I answered you last night ; 

" No !" this morning, Sir, 1 say ! 
Colours, seen by candle-light, 

Will not look the same by day. 

When the tabors played their best, 
Lamps above, and laughs be*ow — 

Love me sounded like a jest, 
Fit for Yes or fit for No! 

Call me false, or call me free — 
Vow, whatever light may shine, 

No man on thy face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both — 

Time to dance is not to woo — 

Wooer light makes fickle troth — 
Scorn of me recoils on you ! 

Learn to win a lady's faith 

Nobly, as the thing is high ; 

Bravely, as for life and death — 

With a loyal gravity. 
40 



470 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Lead her from the festive boards. 
Point her to the starry skies, 

Guard her, by your truthful words, 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true — 
Ever true as wives of yore — 

And her Fes, once said to you, 
Shall be Yes for evermore. 



A CHILD ASLEEP. 

How he sleepeth ! having drunken 
Weary childhood's maudragore, 
From his pretty eyes have sunken 
Pleasures, to make room for more — 
Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day 
before. 

Nosegays! leave them for the waking! 

Throw them earthward where they grew ; 
Dim are such beside the breaking 

Amaranths he looks unto — 
Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do. 

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden 

From the palms they sprang beneath, 
Now perhaps divinely holden, 
Swing against him in a wreath — 
We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his 
breath. 

Vision unto vision calleth, 

While the young child dreameth on ; 

Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth 
With the glory thou hast won ! 
Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 471 

We should see the spirits ringing 

Round thee, — were the clouds away! 
'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing 
In the silent-seeming clay — 
Singing ! — Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way 

As the moths around a taper, 
As the bees around a rose, 
As at sunset, many a vapour, — 
So the spirits group and close 
Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose. 

Shapes of brightness overlean thee, 

With their diadems of youth 
Striking on thy ringlets sheenly, — 
While thou smilest, . . not in sooth 
Thy smile, . . but the overfair one, dropt from some ethereal 
mouth. 

Haply it is angels' duty, 

During slumber, shade by shade 
To fine down this childish beauty 
To the thing it must be made, 
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it 
fade. 

Softly, softly ! make no noises ! 

Now he lieth dead and dumb — 
Now he hears the angels' voices 
Folding silence in the room — 
Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they 
come. 

Speak not, he is consecrated — 
Breathe no breath across his eyes ; 

Lifted up and separated 

On the hand of God he lies, 
In a sweetness beyond touching, — held in cloistral sanctities. 



472 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Could ye bless him — father — mother? 

Bless the dimple in his cheek ? 
Dare ye look at one another, 
And the benediction speak ? 
Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too 
weak ? 

He is harmless — ye are sinful, — 
Ye are troubled, — he, at ease! 
From his slumber, virtue winful 
Floweth outward with increase — 
Dare not bless him ! but be blessed by his peace — and go in 
peace. 



CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 

DYING IN HIS ABSENCE ABROAD, AND REFERRING TO THE POEM IN 
WHICH HE RECORDED THE SWEETNESS OF HER EYES. 

On the door you will not enter, 

I have gazed too long — adieu! 
Hope withdraws her peradventure — ■ 
Death is near me, — and not you ! 
Come, O lover ! 
Close and cover 
These poor eyes, you called, I ween, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

When I heard you sing that burden 

In my vernal days and bowers, 
Other praises disregarding, 

I but hearkened that of yours, — 
Only saying 
In heart-playing, 
' Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, 
If the sweetest, his have seen!' 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

But all changeth! At this vesper, 

Cold the sun shines down the door ! 
If you stood there, would you whisper 
'Love, I love you,' as before, — 
Death pervading 
Now, and shading 
Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, 
As the sweetest, ever seen ? 

Yes ! I think, were you beside them, 

Near the bed I die upon, — 
Though their beauty you denied them, 
As you stood there, looking down, 
You would truly 
Call them duly, 
For the love's sake found therein, — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

And if you looked down upon them, 

And if they looked up to you, 
All the light which has foregone them 
Would be gathered back anew! 
They would truly 
Be as duly 
Love-transformed to Beauty's sheen, — 
'Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

But, ah me ! you only see me 

In your thoughts of loving man, 
Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy 
Through the wavings of my fan, — 
And unweeting 
Go repeating, 
In your reverie serene, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 
40* 



473 



474 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

While my spirit leans and reaches 

From my body still and pale, 
Fain to hear what tender speech is 
In your love, to help my bale — 
my poet, 
Come and show it! 
Come, of latest love to glean 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

my poet, O my prophet, 

When you praised their sweetness so, 
Did you think, in singing of it, 
That it might be near to go ? 
Had you fancies 
From their glances, 
That the grave would quickly screen 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 

No reply ! The fountain's warble 
In the court-yard sounds alone ! 
As the water to the marble 

So my heart falls with a moan, 
From love-sighing 
To this dying ! 
Death forerunneth Love, to win 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

Will you come ? when I 'm departed 

Where all sweetnesses are hid — 
When thy voice, my tender-hearted, 
Will not lift up either lid. 
Cry, O lover, 
Love is over ! 
Cry beneath the Cypress green — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

When the angelus is ringing, 

Near the convent will you walk, 
And recall the choral singing 

Which brought angels down our talk? 
Spirit-shriven 
I viewed Heaven, 
Till you smiled — 'Is earth unclean, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 



When beneath the palace-lattice, 

You ride slow as you have done, 
And you see a face there — that is 
Not the old familiar one, — 
Will you oftly 
Murmur softly, 
' Here ye watched me morn and e'en, 
Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 



475 



When the palace ladies sitting 

Round your gittern, shall have said, 
' Poet, sing those verses written 
For the lady who is dead,' — 
Will you tremble, 
Yet dissemble, — 
Or sing hoarse, with tears between, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 



Sweetest eyes ! How sweet in flowings, 

The repeated cadence is ! 
Though you sang a hundred poems, 
Still the best one would be this. 
I can hear it 
'Twixt my spirit 
And the earth-noise, intervene — ■ 
I Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 



476 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

But the priest waits for the praying, 

And the choir are on their knees, — 
And the soul must pass away in 
Strains more solemn high than these ! 
Miserere 

For the weary — > 
Oh, no longer for Catrine, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 

Keep my riband ! take and keep it, — 
I have loosed it from my hair •* 
Feeling, while you overweep it, 
Not alone in your despair, — 
Since with saintly 
Watch, unfaintly, 
Out of Heaven shall o'er you lean 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

But — but now — 'yet unreinoved 

Up to Heaven, they glisten fast — 
You may cast away, Beloved, 
In your future, all my past ; 
Such old phrases 
May be praises 
For some fairer bosom-queen — 
; Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 

Eyes of mine, what are ye doing ? 

Faithless, faithless, — praised amiss, 
If a tear be of your showing, 
Drop for any hope of his ! 
Death hath boldness 
Besides coldness, 
If unworthy tears demean 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

* She left him the riband from her hair. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 477 

I will look out to his future — 

I will bless it till it shine ! 
Should he ever be a suitor 
Unto sweeter eyes than mine, 
Sunshine gild them, 
Angels shield them, 
Whatsoever eyes terrene 
Be the sweetest his have seen! 



THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 

So the dreams depart, 
So the fading phantoms flee, 
And the sharp reality 
Now must act its part. 

Westwoob's ' Beads from a Rosary. 

Little Ellie sits alone 
'Mid the beeches of a meadow, 

By a stream-side on the grass : 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow, 

On her shining hair and face. 

She has thrown her bonnet by ; 
And her feet she has been dipping 

In the shallow water's flow — 

Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 

While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone, — 
And the smile, she softly useth, 

Fills the silence like a speech ; 

While she thinks what shall be done, — 
And the sweetest pleasure, chooseth, 

For her future within reach ! 



178 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooseth . . . ' I will have a lover, 

Riding on a steed of steeds ! 

He shall love me without guile ; 
And to him I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds. 

' And the steed shall be red-roan, 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath, — 

And the lute he plays upon, 
Shall strike ladies into trouble, 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

' And the steed, it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure, 

And the mail shall swim the wind ! 

And the hoofs along the sod, 
Shall flash onward in a pleasure, 

Till the shepherds look behind. 

' But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in, 

When he gazes in my face ! 

He will say, " O Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in ; 

And I kneel here for thy grace." 

' Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low,- 
With the red-roan steed anear him 

Which shall seem to understand — 

Till I answer, " Rise, and go ! 
For the world must love and fear him 

Whom I gift with heart and hand." 

' Then he will arise so pale, 

I shall feel my own lips tremble 

With a yes I must not say — 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 479 

Nathless, maiden-brave, " Farewell, 1 ' 
I will utter and dissemble — 

" Light to-morrow, with to-day." 

' Then he will ride through the hills, 
To the wide world past the river, 

There to put away all wrong! 

To make straight distorted wills, 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along. 

'Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream, and climb the mountain, 

And kneel down beside my feet — 

" Lo ! my master sends this gage, 
Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 

What wilt thou exchange for it ?" 

4 And the first time, I will send 
A white rose-bud for a guerdon, — 

And the second time, a glove ! 

But the third time — I may bend 
From my pride, and answer — "Pardon — 

If he comes to take my love." 

' Then the young foot-page will run — 
Then my lover will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee ! 

" I am a duke's eldest son ! 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 

But, O Love, I love but thee .'" 

' He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then ; and lead me as a lover, 

Through the crowds that praise his deeds ! 

And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
Unto him I will discover 

That swan's nest amonjj the reeds.' 



480 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

Little Fllie, with her smile 
Not yet ended, rose up gayh , — 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — 

And went homeward, round a mile. 
Just to see, as she did daily, 

What more eggs were with the two. 

Pushing through the elm-tree copse 
Winding by the stream, light-hearted, 

Where the osier pathway leads — 

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops ! 
Lo ! the wild swan had deserted — 

And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

Ellie went home sad and slow ! 
If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steeds, 

Sooth I know not ! but I know 
She could show him never — never, 

That swan's nest among the reeds ! 



cowper's grave. 

I will invite thee, from thy envious herse 

To rise, and 'bout the World thy beams to spread, 

That we may see there's brightnesse in the dead. 

Haiiington. 

It is a place where poets crowned 

May feel the heart's decaying ! 
It is a place where happy saints 

May weep amid their praying — 
Yet let the grief and humbleness 

As low as silence languish ; 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

O poets! from a maniac's tongue 

Was poured the deathless singing! 
Christians ! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging! 
O men, this man in brotherhood, 

Your weary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

And died while ye were smiling! 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story 
How discord on the music fell, 

And darkness on the glory — 
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds 

And wandering lights departed, 
He wore no less a loving face, 

Because so broken-hearted. 

He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration : 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken : 
Named softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

I learn to think upon him; 
With meekness that is gratefulness, 

On God, whose heaven hath won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud 

Towards his love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along, 

Where breath and bird could find him; 
41 2f 



481 



482 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

And wrought within his shattered brain 

Such quick poetic senses, 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass 

His own did calmly number ; 
And silent shadow from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing, 
Its women and its men became 

Beside him true and loving ! — 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes, 

With Sylvan tendernesses. 

But while in blindness he remained, 

Unconscious of the guiding, 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth, 

Though frenzy desolated, — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy 

Whom only God created ! 

Like a sick child, that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses, 
And droppelh on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — 

" My mother ! where 's my mother ?" — 
As if such tender words and looks 

Could come from any other! — 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart 

He sees her bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, 

Th' unweary love she bore him — 
Thus, woke the poet from the dream 

His life's long fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes 

Which closed in death to save him ! 

Thus ! oh, not thus ! no type of earth 

Could image that awaking, 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant 

Of Seraphs round him breaking — 
Or felt the new immortal throb 

Of soul from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew 

" My Saviour ! not deserted !" 

Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 

The cross in darkness rested, 
Upon the Victim's hidden face 

No love was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have e'er 

Th' atoning drops averted — 
What tears have washed them from the soul — 

That one should be deserted ? 

Deserted ! God could separate 

From His own essence rather : 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

The righteous Son and Father — 
Yea ! once Immanuel's orphaned cry 

His universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, 

" My God, I am forsaken !" 



483 



48 4 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

It went up from the Holy's lips 

Amid his lost creation, 
That of the lost, no son should use 

Those words of desolation ; 
That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 

Should mar not hope's fruition : 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 

His rapture, in a vision ! 



THE SLEEP. 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvii. 2. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist's music deep — 
Now tell me if that any is, 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep ?" 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved — 

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep — 
The senate's shout to patriot vows — 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows ?- 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith, all undisproved — 

A little dust, to overweep — 
And bitter memories, to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake ! 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : 



ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. 

But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber, when 
" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
O delved gold, the wailers heap! 

strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

And "giveth His beloved sleep. 

His dew drops mutely on the hill ; 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men toil and reap 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Ha ! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man, 

In such a rest his heart to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 

" He giveth His beloved sleep !" 

For me, my heart, that erst did go, 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the juggler's leap, — 
Would now its wearied vision close, 
Would childlike on His love repose, 

Who " giveth His beloved sleep !" 

And friends! — dear friends! — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep — 
Let me, most loving of you all, 
Say, not a tear must o'er her fall — 

"He yiveth His beloved sleep!" 
41* 



486 ELIZABETH B. BARRETT 



SONNET. 



Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 

More grief than ye can weep for. That is well — 

That is light grieving! lighter, none befel, 

Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. 

Tears ! what are tears ? The babe weeps in its cot. 

The mother singing : at her marriage-bell, 

The bride weeps : and before the oracle 

Of high-faned hills the poet hath forgot 

That moisture on his cheeks. Commend the grace, 

Mourners, who weep ! Albeit, as some have done, 

Ye grope tear-blinded, in a desert place, 

And touch but tombs, — look up! Those tears will run 

Soon, in long rivers, down the lifted face, 

And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. 



SONNET. COMFORT. 

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet 
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, 
Lest I should fear and fall and miss thee so 
Who art not missed by any that entreat. 
Speak to ine as to Mary at thy feet — 
And if no precious gums my hands bestow, 
Let my tears drop like amber, while 1 go 
In reach of thy divinest voice complete 
In humanest affection — thus, in sooth, 
To lose the sense of losing! As a child, 
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, 
Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; 
Till, sinking on her breast, love reconciled, 
He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 



MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. 48' 



SONNET. EXAGGERATION. 

We overstate the ills of life, and take 
Imagination, given us to bring down 
The choirs of singing angels overshone 
By God's clear glory, — down our earth to rake 
The dismal snows instead ; flake following flake, 
To cover all the corn. We walk upon 
The shadow of hills across a level thrown, 
And pant like climbers. Near the alderbrake 
We sigh so loud, the nightingale within 
Refuses to sing loud, as else she would. 
O brothers ! let us leave the shame and sin 
Of taking vainly in a plaintive mood, 
The holy name of Grief! — holy herein, 
That by the grief of One, came all our good. 



MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG 

Is the latest female poet claiming our attention, her first volume, 
The World's Complaint and other Poems, having just appeared. She 
gives good promise, her verses exhibiting a graceful ability and an 
excellent moral tone, as creditable to her heart as her mind. 



EVERY-DAY HEROES. 

We speak and we read of the hero's deeds, 

And envy perchance his fame ; 
We would tread, like him, some path that leads 

To gaining a deathless name; 
And we sigh as our time is vainly spent, 
" Oh, 't was not for this that I was meant !" 



488 MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. 

We feel, with a touch of deep regret, 
What nothing's, alas ! we 've been ; 

How like a stagnant pool, as yet, 
Has been to us Life's stream. 

There seemed to our souls a warning scut, — ■ 

•'•Mortal! for this thou wert not meant." 

Yet we sit and dream of a better day, 

And idly its coming wait, 
When, like the hero of poet's lay, 

We too maybe something great; 
And still through the mist our spirits grope, 
For the distant gleam of this better hope. 

For alas ! while we dream these airy dreams, 

And sigh for the better afar, 
We are dwelling on that which only seems, 

While we slight the truths that are. 
We are looking for flowers more fair and sweet, 
While we trample the fairest 'neath our feet. 

The wearisome, lone, and monotonous lot, 
Where To-day 's as the day that is gone ; 

Where To-morrow brings nothing To-day has not, 
Nor evening the hopes of the morn ; 

Oh ! even here, in the loneliest hours, 

Are there lying some fair but neglected flowers. 

Some being we gaze on from day to day, 

And tend with a holy care, 
Lightening the woes in each other's way, 

Each breathing a mutual prayer. 
Oh ! here, in the homeliest act or speech, 
May we to the fame of a hero reach. 

For when selfish thoughts are for others subdued, 
And smiles conquer the rising frown, 

When we love our own in another's good, 
Oh ! we weave us a deathless crown, 



MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. 

That many a hero's present or past, 
With all its glory, has never surpassed. 

Oh ! did we but see how in smallest things 
Are beginnings of all that 's great, 

Life's soil woidd be watered by countless springs, 
That now 'neath the surface wait. 

We should feel that when earthward kindly sent, 

For heroes and heroines all were meant. 

THE POOR MAN'S FLOWER. 

Wandering along his weary way, 

In dirty tatters meanly dressed, 
A beggar-man one summer-day, 

Seemed hastening to some place of rest. 
No smile was on his withered face, 

It nought but anxious care exprest; 
Grim Poverty had left its trace, 

And inly rankled at his breast ; 
Yet in his coat that weary hour 
The poor man nursed a cherished flower. 

'T was no choice plant in hothouse bred, 

And guarded with a tender care ; 
No hand had propped its drooping head, 

Or shielded it from midnight air ; 
Yet choicest flowers might fail to bring 

To their rich owners thoughts as fair, 
As did that simple, lowly thing, 

To that unhappy man of care, 
Who from the hedge-side, free to all, 
Had plucked himself that blossom small. 

No flow'ret in a lady's dress, 

Where all beside is meet and bright, 

And she, in her own loveliness, 
Seems but another flower of light, 



489 



490 MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG. 

Has aught so sacred or so dear, 
So touching to the gazer's sight, 

As that bright spot amongst the drear, 

That star amidst the gloom of night ; — 

The flow' ret plucked by fingers rude, 

To cheer the beggar's solitude. 



The simple plucking of that flower 

Betrayed a tenderness of thought, 
Ready to find in every hour 

The kindred sweetness that it sought : 
A sense of beauty seldom found 

Where all within is darkly fraught, 
But often trampled to the ground, 

And mercilessly set at nought, 
By those who in their selfish power 
Treat as the weed what is the flower. 

Yet brighter days begin to dawn ; 

The weeds of prejudice and pride, 
Though slowly, yet are surely drawn, 

From bosoms where they used to hide : 
And, thou, poor scorned and withered flower, 

With wealth and grandeur unallied, 
Shalt see, ere long, the happy hour, 

When men, from falseness purified, 
Shall learn to estimate the worth 
Of all the toiling 1 sons of earth. 



THE END. 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 

PUBLISH THE 

AMERICAN FEMALE POETS: 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, 

BY 
CAROLINE MAY. 

AN ELEGANT VOLUME, WITH A HANDSOME VIGNETTE TITLE, 

AND 

PORTRAIT OF MRS. OSGOOD, 

The Literary contents of this work contain copious selections from 
the writings of 
Anne Bradstreet, Jane Turell, Anne Eliza Bleecker, Margaretta 
V. Faugeres, Phillis Wheatley, 3Iercy Warren, Sarah Porter, 
Sarah VVentworth Morton, Mrs. Little, Maria A. Brooks, 
Lydia Huntley Sigourney, Anna Maria Wells, Caroline Oil- 
man, Sarah Josepha Hale, Maria -James, Jessie G. M'Cartee, 
Mrs. Gray, Eliza Follen, Louisa Jane Hall, Mrs. Swift, 
Mrs. E. C. Kinney, Marguerite St. Leon Loud, Luella J. 
Case, Elizaheth Bogart, A. D. Woodhridge, Elizaheth 
Margaret Chandler, Emma C. Embury, Sarah Helena 
Whitman, Cynthia Taggart, Elizabeth J. Eames, 
«&c. &.C. &c. 

The whole forming a beautiful specimen of the highly cultivated state oi 

the arts in the United States, as regards the paper, topography, 

and binding in rich and various styles. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE PREFACE. 
One of the most striking characteristics of the present age 
is the number of female writers, especially in the department 
of belles-lettres. This is even more true of the United 
States, than of the old world ; and poetry, which is the lan- 
guage of the affections, has been freely employed among us 
to express the emotions of woman's heart. 

As the rare exotic, costly because of the distance from 
which it is brought, will often suffer in comparison of beauty 
and fragrance with the abundant wild flowers of our mea- 
dows and woodland slopes, so the reader of our present 
volume, if ruled by an honest taste, will discover in the effu- 
sions of our gifted countrywomen as much grace of form, 
and powerful sweetness of thought and feeling, as in the 
blossoms of woman's genius culled from other lands. 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 

HAVE JUST PUBLISHED 

THE WOMEN OF THE SCRIPTURES, 

EDITED BY THE 

REV. H. HASTINGS WELD; 

WITH 

ORIGINAL LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS, 

BY 

DISTINGUISHED AMERICAN WRITERS: 

BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTRATED BY 

TWELVE SUPERB ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL, 
BY J. SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, 

FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS, EXPRESSLY FOR THE WORK, 

BY T, P. ROSSITER, NEW YORK: 

INCLUDING 



Miriam. 


Hannah, 


Esther, 


Eve, 


Ruth, 


The Syrophenician 


Sarah, 


Queen of Sheba. 


Martha, 


Rachel, 


Shunainite, 


The Marys. 



Elegantly Bound in White Calf, Turkey Morocco, and Cloth 
Extra, with Gilt Edges. 



PREFACE. 

The subject of this book entitles it to a high place among illustrated 
volumes. The execution, literary and artistic, will, we are confident, be 
found worthy of the theme ; since we have received the assistance of 
authors best known in the sacred literature of our country, in presenting, 
in their various important attitudes and relations, the Women of the 
Scriptures. The contents of the volume were prepared expressly for it, 
with the exception of the pages from the pen of Mrs. Balfour; and for the 
republication of her articles, no one who reads them will require an apology. 
The designs for the engravings are original; and the Publishers trust that 
in the present volume they have made their best acknowledgment for the 
favour with which its predecessors have been received. The whole, they 
believe, will be found no inapt memento of those to whom St. Peter refers 
the sex for an ensample : " the holy women, in the old time." 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON 

HAVE RECENTLY PUBLISHED, 

SCENFS IN THE LIFE OF THE SAVIOUR, 

EY THE 

POETS AND PAINTERS: 

CONTATNING 

MAN? GEMS OF ABT AND GENIUS, 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF 

THE SAVIOUR'S LIFE AND PASSION. 

EDITED BY THE 

REV. RUFUS GRISWOLD. 

THE ILLUSTRATIONS, WHICH ARE EXQUISITELY ENGRAVED ON STEEL, 
BY JOHN SARTAIN, ARE : 



The Hnly Family, painted hy N. Poussin; 
The Suvumr. Iiv Paul Delaroche'; 
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The Daughter of Janus, by Delonue ; 



Walking on the Sea, by Henry Richter; 
The Ten Lepers, by A. Vandyke ; 
Tlie Last Supper, by Benjamin West; 
The Women at the Sepulchre, by Philip Viet. 



THE LITERARY CONTENTS, COMPRISING SIXTY-FOUR POEMS, ARE BY 

Milton, Hemans, Montgomery, Keble, Mrs. Sigourncy, Miss Lan> 

don, Dale, Willis, Bulnnch, Bethune, JLongfellow, Whittier, 

Croly, Klopstock, Mrs. Osgood, Pierpont, Crossvvell, and 

other celebrated Poets of this and other Countries* 

The volume is richly and beautifully bound in Turkey Morocco, gilt, white 
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We commend this volume to the attention of those who would place a 
Souvenir in the hands of their friends, to invite them in the purest strains of 
poetry, and by the eloquence of art, to study the Life of the Saviour. — Christ. Obs. 



The contents are so arranged as to constitute a Poetical and Pictorial Life 
of the Saviour, and we can think of no more appropriate gift-book. In typo- 
graphy, embellishments, and binding, we have recently seen nothing more 
tasteful and rich. — North American. 



We like this book, as well for its beauty as for its elevated character, ft 
is just such an one as is suited, either for a library, or a parlour centre-table ; 
and no one can arise from its perusal without feeling strongly the sublimity 
ind enduring character of the Christian religion. — Harrisburg Telegraph. 

This is truly a splendid volume in all its externals, while its contents are 
richly worthy of the magnificent style in which they are presented. As illus- 
trations of the Life and Passion of the Saviour of mankind, it will form an 
appropriate Souvenir for the season in which we commemorate his coming 
upon earth. — Neal's Gazette. 



SCENES IN THE LIVES OF THE APOSTLES ; 

ILLUSTRATED BY 

CELEBRATED POETS AND PAINTERS. 

EDITED DY 

H. HASTINGS WELD. 
Eight Illustrations, beautifully Engraved on Steel, by Sartaiu. 

Die Redeemer, painted by Decaine — Frontis- I Christ's charge to Peter, by Rapli:n-1 . 

piece; Peter and Julm healing the Lame Man al th 

Antioch in Syria, by Hardin?— Vignette title; Beautiful Gate uf tlie Temple, b) Raphael, 

John reproving Herod, by Lk Brun ; Paul before Agrippa, by Sartain j 

Christ, with his Disciples, weeping over Jerusa- John on the Isle of Putinos, by Decaine 

lem, by Begas ; 

THE LITERARY CONTENTS CONSIST OF UPWARDS OF SEVENTY POEMS, BV 

Bishop Ileber, Lowell, Keble, Hannah F. Gould, Clark, Mrs. 
llemans, Mrs. Sigourney, Barton, Bryant, Miss Landon, Tap- 
pan, Pierpont, Longfellow, Miss Davidson, Dale, Cros- 
well, Percival, Bow ring, and other celebrated Poets. 

Beautifully bound, in various styles, to match " Scenes in the Life 
of the Saviour." 

We do not know where we could find a more elegant and appropriate 
present for a Christian friend. It will always have value. It is not one of 
those ephemeral works which are read, looked at, and forgotten. It tells of 
scenes dear to the hearts of Christians, which must ever find there an abiding 
place. — Banner of the Cross. 

Here is truly a beautiful volume, admirable in design, and perfect in its 
execution. The editor, with a refined taste, and a loving appreciation of 
Scripture history, has selected some of the best writings of ancient and modern 
authors ■.. illustration of various scenes in the Lives of the Apostlis, whilst 
his own facile pen has given us in prose a series of excellent contributions. 
The lyre of Heber seems to vibrate again as we turn over its pages ; and 
Keble, Jenner, Cowper, Herrick, Bernard, Barton, and a brillimt host of 
glowing writers, shine again by the light of Christian truth, and the beaming 
effulgence of a pure religion. It is an elegant and appropriate volume for a 
Christmas gift. — Transcript. 

The exterior is novel and beautiful ; the typography is in the highest style 
of the art ; and the engravings, nine in number, are among the best efforts 
of Mr. Sartain. The prose anicles contributed by the editor are well wriueti ; 
and ihe poetical selections are made with judgment. The volume is a worihy 
companion of " Scenes in the Life of the Saviour," and both are much more 
worthy o* Christian patronage than the great mass of annuals. — Presbyterian. 



The above volumes are among the most elegant specimens from the 
American press. In neatness and chasteness of execution, they are perhaps 
unsurpassed. The engravings are of ihe highest order; and illustrate most 
strikingly, and with great beauty, some of ihe most sublime and the most 
touching ScrirHure scenes. They also contain some of the richest specimens 
of Sacred Poetry, whose subject and style are such as deeply to interest ihe 
imagination, and at the same nme to make the heart better. We hope the 
Christian's table, at leas!, may be adorned with the volumes above mentioned, 
and such as these. — New England Puritan. 



BETHUNE'S POEMS, 

LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, 

LAYS OF LOVE AND FAITH, 

WITH OTHER 

FUGITIVE POEMS. 

BY THE 

REV. G. W . BETHUNE, D.D. 

This is an elegant Volume, beautifully printed on the finest and whitest 
paper, and richly bound in various styles. 

As one arranges in a simple vase 

A little store of unpretending flowers, 

So gathered I some records of past hours, 
And trust them, gentle reader, to thy grace, 
Nor hope that in my pages thou wilt trace 

The biilliant proof of high poetic powers; 
But dear memorials of happy days, 

When heaven shed blessings on my heart like shower*, 
Clothing with beauty e'en the desert place; 
Till I, with thankful gladness in my looks, 

Turned me to God, sweet nature, loving friends, 
Christ's little children, well-worn ancient books, 

The charm of Art, the rapture music sends; 
And sang away the grief that on man's lot attends. 



OPINIONS OF TH2 PRESS. 

We beg leave to express our thanks to the diligent author of these Poems for this 
additional and highly valuable contribution to the treasures of American literature. 
The nro"e writings of Dr. Bethune, by their remarkably pure and ehaste language, 
their deoth and [clearness of thought their force and beauty of illustration, and by their 
ffi t a id elevated piety, have justly secured to him a place with the very best 
authors Sf our landlwhose works are destined to exert a wide-spread and most salutary 
fnfluence on the forming character and expanding mind of our growing republic. Tins 
volume of his collected poetry, though i. be, as the author observes in his beautiful 
in rodue or sonnet but the "gathered records of past hours," or the fruit of moments 
of naus rb us relaxation from more severe labours, may without fear take its place by 
the "be four best poetic productions; and there are many pieces in it, which, for 
accuracy of rhvtlun f'r refined sentiment, energy of thought, flowing and lucid ex- 
nr«K«inn and subduin" pathos, are unsurpassed by any writer. 

P Sienorlv and in the matters of paper and typography, this is an elegant volume. 
and so ftris'a fitting casket for the gems it contains-fbr gems these beautiful poerna 
are of » purest rav serene "-lustrous jewels-ornaments of purest virgin gold 

Manv hallowed breathings will be found among the poems here collected-all distin- 
gushed by correct taste and refined feeling, rarely dazzling by gorgeous imagery, but 
always charming by their purity and truthfulness to nature.-JV. Y. Commercal. 

The author of this volume has a gifted mind, improved by extensive education ; a 
Jerful te npe^^ened l,v reiigion ; a sound taste, refined and improved by extensive 
observation and much reading, and t he gift of poe try— AortA American. 

The Volume hefore us contains much that is truly beautiful ; many cems that sparkle 
„nTh genius ™d feeHng They are imbued with the true spirit of poesy, and may b- 
lead again and again with pleasure.— Inquirer. 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON PUBLISH, 

THE MIRROR OF LIFE, 

A TRULY AMERICAN BOOK, ENTIRELY ORIGINAL, 

PRESENTING A VIEW OF THE PROGRESS OF LIFE, 

FROM INFANCY TO OLD AGE: 

Illustrated by a series of Eleven Engravings, beautifully 
executed on Steel, 

BY J. SARTAIN, PHILADELPHIA, 
INCLUDING 

Infancy, (Vignette Title,) Designed by Schmitz. 

Childhood, Painted " Eicliholtz. 

Boyhood, (Frontispiece,) Painted " Osgood. 

Girlhood " Rossiter. 

Maidenhood " Rothermel. 

The Bride " Rossiter. 

The Mother " Rossiter. 

The Widow " Rossiter. 

Manhood, Designed " Rothermel. 

Old Age " Rothermel. 

The Shrouded Mirror, Designed " Rev. Dr. Morton, 

The literary contents comprise original articles in prose and verse, from 

the pens of 

Rev. G. W. Bethune, Rev. Clement M. Butler, Mrs. Sigourney, Mrs 

Osgood, Mrs. Hale, Mrs. Ellet, J. T. Headlet, Rev. M. A. Db 

Wolfe Howe, Miss Sedgwick, Rev. Wm. B. Sprague, Ret. 

H. Hastings Weld, Miss Caroline E Roberts, Bushrod 

Bartlett, Esa-i Alice G. Lee, Hope Hesseltine, 

AND OTHER FAVOURITE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN COUNTRY. 

EDITED BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL, 

And richly bound in various styles. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

This is an elegant volume ; with an excellent design, combining all that is attractive 
in typographical execution, with beautiful engravings, it illustrates the progress of 
human life in a series of mezzotints of the most finished style. These handsome pic- 
tures present boyhood and girlhood, the lover and the loved, the bride and the mother, 
the widow and old age, with many other scenes that will have a pleasing and salutary 
impression. The literarj department is executed by a variety of able and entertaining 
writers, forming altogether a beautiful gift-book, appropriate to all seasons. — JV. Y. Ob 
server 



A most beautiful gem of a book, and a superb specimen of artistical skill, as well as 
a "Mirror of Life." As a brilliant and tasteful ornament for the centre-table, or a 
memento of affection and good wishes, to he presented in the form of a Birthday 
Christmas, or New Vear's gift, to a friend, it is richly entitled to the consideration and 
patronage of the public— Christian Observer. 



The idea is a happy one, and the work is every way worthy of its subject. Without 
being too costly, it is in every r spect a very handsome volume ; the sentiments it con 
lains are not only unobjectionable, hut salutary ; and we cannot conceive a gift of th>- 
kind which, between intelligent friends, would be more acceptable to the receiver or 
Honourable to the giver. — JV. ¥. Commercial. 



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